BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

VILLA    RUBEIN,  and  Other  Stories 
THE   ISLAND    PHARISEES 
THE   MAN    OF    PROPERTY 
THE   COUNTRY    HOUSE 
FRATERNITY 
THE   PATRICIAN 
THE   DARK    FLOWER 
THE   FREELANDS 
BEYOND  

A   COMMENTARY 

A   MOTLEY 

TEE    INN    OF   TRANQUILLITY 

THE    LITTLE    MAN,    and  Other  Satiroo 

A    SHEAF 


plays:  first  series 

and  Separately 
THE   SILVER   BOX 
JOY 
STRIFE 

plays:  second  series 

and  Separately 
THE    ELDEST    SON 
THE    LITTLE    DREAM 
JUSTICE 

plays:  third  series 

and  Separately 
THE    FUGITIVE 
THE    PIGEON 
THE   MOB 

A   BIT   O'  LOVE 


MOODS,  SONGS,  AND  DOGGERELS 

MEMORIES.       Illustrated 


BEYOND 


BEYOND 

A   DRAMA   OF    HEART'S    COUNSELING 


BY 

JOHN   GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  August,  1917 
COPYRIGHT,  1916,  1917,  BY  THE  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 


UNI V Mi™  •  »  "l    A    k,'ltViU" 
SANTA  UAKHAHA 


PART   I 


BEYOND 


At  the  door  of  St.  George's  registry  office,  Charles 
Clare  Winton  strolled  forward  in  the  wake  of  the 
taxi-cab  that  was  bearing  his  daughter  away  with 
"the  fiddler  fellow"  she  had  married.  His  sense  of 
decorum  forbade  his  walking  with  Nurse  Betty — the 
only  other  witness  of  the  wedding.  A  stout  woman 
in  a  highly  emotional  condition  would  have  been  an 
incongruous  companion  to  his  slim,  upright  figure, 
moving  with  just  that  unexaggerated  swing  and  bal- 
ance becoming  to  a  lancer  of  the  old  school,  even  if 
he  has  been  on  the  retired  list  for  sixteen  years. 

Poor  Betty!  He  thought  of  her  with  irritated 
sympathy — she  need  not  have  given  way  to  tears  on 
the  door-step.  She  might  well  feel  lost  now  Gyp 
was  gone,  but  not  so  lost  as  himself!  His  pale- 
gloved  hand — the  one  real  hand  he  had,  for  his  right 
hand  had  been  amputated  at  the  wrist — twisted 
vexedly  at  the  small,  grizzling  moustache  lifting  it- 
self from  the  corners  of  his  firm  lips.  On  this  grey 
February  day  he  wore  no  overcoat;  faithful  to  the 
absolute,  almost  shamefaced  quietness  of  that  wed- 
ding, he  had  not  even  donned  black  coat  and  silk 
hat,  but  wore  a  blue  suit  and  a  hard  black  felt.  The 
instinct  of  a  soldier  and  hunting  man  to  exhibit  no 

3 


4  BEYOND 

sign  whatever  of  emotion  did  not  desert  him  this 
dark  day  of  his  life;  but  his  grey-hazel  eyes  kept 
contracting,  staring  fiercely,  contracting  again;  and, 
at  moments,  as  if  overpowered  by  some  deep  feel- 
ing, they  darkened  and  seemed  to  draw  back  in 
his  head.  His  face  was  narrow  and  weathered  and 
thin-cheeked,  with  a  clean-cut  jaw,  small  ears,  hair 
darker  than  the  moustache,  but  touched  at  the  side 
wings  with  grey — the  face  of  a  man  of  action,  self- 
reliant,  resourceful.  And  his  bearing  was  that  of 
one  who  has  always  been  a  bit  of  a  dandy,  and  paid 
attention  to  "form,"  yet  been  conscious  sometimes 
that  there  were  things  beyond.  A  man,  who,  pre- 
serving all  the  precision  of  a  type,  yet  had  in  him  a 
streak  of  something  that  was  not  typical.  Such 
often  have  tragedy  in  their  pasts. 

Making  his  way  towards  the  park,  he  turned  into 
Mount  Street.  There  was  the  house  still,  though 
the  street  had  been  very  different  then — the  house 
he  had  passed,  up  and  down,  up  and  down  in  the 
fog,  like  a  ghost,  that  November  afternoon,  like  a 
cast-out  dog,  in  such  awful,  unutterable  agony  of 
mind,  twenty-three  years  ago,  when  Gyp  was  born. 
And  then  to  be  told  at  the  door — he,  with  no  right 
to  enter,  he,  loving  as  he  believed  man  never  loved 
woman— to  be  told  at  the  door  that  she  was  dead — 
dead  in  bearing  what  he  and  she  alone  knew  was 
their  child !  Up  and  down  in  the  fog,  hour  after 
hour,  knowing  her  time  was  upon  her;  and  at  last 
to  be  told  that !  Of  all  fates  that  befall  man,  surely 
the  most  awful  is  to  love  too  much. 


BEYOND  5 

Queer  that  his  route  should  take  him  past  the 
very  house  to-day,  after  this  new  bereavement !  Ac- 
cursed luck — that  gout  which  had  sent  him  to  Wies- 
baden, last  September!  Accursed  luck  that  Gyp 
had  ever  set  eyes  on  this  fellow  Fiorsen,  with  his 
fatal  riddle !  Certainly  not  since  Gyp  had  come  to 
live  with  him,  fifteen  years  ago,  had  he  felt  so  for- 
lorn and  fit  for  nothing.  To-morrow  he  would  get 
back  to  Mildenham  and  see  what  hard  riding  would 
do.  Without  Gyp — to  be  without  Gyp !  A  fiddler ! 
A  chap  who  had  never  been  on  a  horse  in  his  life ! 
And  with  his  crutch-handled  cane  he  switched  vi- 
ciously at  the  air,  as  though  carving  a  man  in  two. 

His  club,  near  Hyde  Park  Corner,  had  never 
seemed  to  him  so  desolate.  From  sheer  force  of 
habit  he  went  into  the  card-room.  The  afternoon 
had  so  darkened  that  electric  light  already  burned, 
and  there  were  the  usual  dozen  of  players  seated 
among  the  shaded  gleams  falling  decorously  on  dark- 
wood  tables,  on  the  backs  of  chairs,  on  cards  and 
tumblers,  the  little  gilded  coffee-cups,  the  polished 
nails  of  fingers  holding  cigars.  A  crony  challenged 
him  to  piquet.  He  sat  down  listless.  That  three- 
legged  whist — bridge — had  always  offended  his  fas- 
tidiousness— a  mangled  short  cut  of  a  game !  Poker 
had  something  blatant  in  it.  Piquet,  though  out  of 
fashion,  remained  for  him  the  only  game  worth  play- 
ing— the  only  game  which  still  had  style.  He  held 
good  cards,  and  rose  the  winner  of  five  pounds  that 
he  would  willingly  have  paid  to  escape  the  boredom 
of  the  bout.     Where  would  they  be  by  now?    Past 


6  BEYOND 

Newbury;  Gyp  sitting  opposite  that  Swedish  fellow 
with  his  greenish  wildcat's  eyes.  Something  fur- 
tive, and  so  foreign,  about  him!  A  mess — if  he 
were  any  judge  of  horse  or  man!  Thank  God  he 
had  tied  Gyp's  money  up — every  farthing !  And  an 
emotion  that  was  almost  jealousy  swept  him  at  the 
thought  of  the  fellow's  arms  round  his  soft-haired, 
dark-eyed  daughter — that  pretty,  willowy  creature, 
so  like  in  face  and  limb  to  her  whom  he  had  loved 
so  desperately. 

Eyes  followed  him  when  he  left  the  card-room, 
for  he  was  one  who  inspired  in  other  men  a  kind 
of  admiration — none  could  say  exactly  why.  Many 
quite  as  noted  for  general  good  sportsmanship  at- 
tracted no  such  attention.  Was  it  "style,"  or  was 
it  the  streak  of  something  not  quite  typical — the 
brand  left  on  him  by  the  past? 

Abandoning  the  club,  he  walked  slowly  along  the 
railings  of  Piccadilly  towards  home,  that  house  in 
Bury  Street,  St.  James's,  which  had  been  his  Lon- 
don abode  since  he  was  quite  young — one  of  the 
few  in  the  street  that  had  been  left  untouched  by 
the  general  passion  for  pulling  down  and  building 
up,  which  had  spoiled  half  London  in  his  opinion. 

A  man,  more  silent  than  anything  on  earth,  with 
the  soft,  quick,  dark  eyes  of  a  woodcock  and  a  long, 
greenish,  knitted  waistcoat,  black  cutaway^  and 
tight  trousers  strapped  over  his  boots,  opened  the 
door. 

"I  shan't  go  out  again,  Markey.  Mrs.  Markey 
must  give  me  some  dinner.     Anything'll  do." 


BEYOND  7 

Markey  signalled  that  he  had  heard,  and  those 
brown  eyes  under  eyebrows  meeting  and  forming 
one  long,  dark  line,  took  his  master  in  from  head  to 
heel.  He  had  already  nodded  last  night,  when  his 
wife  had  said  the  gov'nor  would  take  it  hard.  Re- 
tiring to  the  back  premises,  he  jerked  his  head 
toward  the  street  and  made  a  motion  upward  with 
his  hand,  by  which  Mrs.  Markey,  an  astute  woman, 
understood  that  she  had  to  go  out  and  shop  because 
the  gov'nor  was  dining  in.  When  she  had  gone, 
Markey  sat  down  opposite  Betty,  Gyp's  old  nurse. 
The  stout  woman  was  still  crying  in  a  quiet  way. 
It  gave  him  the  fair  hump,  for  he  felt  inclined  to 
howl  like  a  dog  himself.  After  watching  her  broad, 
rosy,  tearful  face  in  silence  for  some  minutes,  he 
shook  his  head,  and,  with  a  gulp  and  a  tremor  of 
her  comfortable  body,  Betty  desisted.  One  paid 
attention  to  Markey. 

Winton  went  first  into  his  daughter's  bedroom, 
and  gazed  at  its  emptied  silken  order,  its  deserted 
silver  mirror,  twisting  viciously  at  his  little  mous- 
tache. Then,  in  his  sanctum,  he  sat  down  before 
the  fire,  without  turning  up  the  fight.  Anyone  look- 
ing in,  would  have  thought  he  was  asleep;  but  the 
drowsy  influence  of  that  deep  chair  and  cosy  fire 
had  drawn  him  back  into  the  long-ago.  What  un- 
happy chance  had  made  him  pass  her  house  to-day ! 

Some  say  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  affinity,  no 
case — of  a  man,  at  least — made  bankrupt  of  passion 
by  a  single  love.     In  theory,  it  may  be  so;  in  fact, 


8  BEYOND 

there  are  such  men — neck-or-nothing  men,  quiet  and 
self-contained,  the  last  to  expect  that  nature  will 
play  them  such  a  trick,  the  last  to  desire  such  sur- 
render of  themselves,  the  last  to  know  when  their 
fate  is  on  them.  Who  could  have  seemed  to  him- 
self, and,  indeed,  to  others,  less  likely  than  Charles 
Clare  Winton  to  fall  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
when  he  stepped  into  the  Bel  voir  Hunt  ballroom 
at  Grantham  that  December  evening,  twenty-four 
years  ago?  A  keen  soldier,  a  dandy,  a  first-rate 
man  to  hounds,  already  almost  a  proverb  in  his 
regiment  for  coolness  and  for  a  sort  of  courteous  dis- 
regard of  women  as  among  the  minor  things  of  life 
— he  had  stood  there  by  the  door,  in  no  hurry  to 
dance,  taking  a  survey  with  an  air  that  just  did  not 
give  an  impression  of  "side"  because  it  was  not  at 
all  put  on.  And — behold ! — she  had  walked  past 
him,  and  his  world  was  changed  for  ever.  Was  it 
an  illusion  of  light  that  made  her  whole  spirit  seem 
to  shine  through  a  half-startled  glance?  Or  a  little 
trick  of  gait,  a  swaying,  seductive  balance  of  body; 
was  it  the  way  her  hair  waved  back,  or  a  subtle 
scent,  as  of  a  flower?  What  was  it?  The  wife  of 
a  squire  of  those  parts,  with  a  house  in  London. 
Her  name?  It  doesn't  matter — she  has  been  long 
enough  dead.  There  was  no  excuse — not  an  ill- 
treated  woman;  an  ordinary,  humdrum  marriage,  of 
three  years  standing;  no  children.  An  amiable  good 
fellow  of  a  husband,  fifteen  years  older  than  herself, 
inclined  already  to  be  an  invalid.  No  excuse  !  Yet, 
in  one  month  from  that  night,  Winton  and  she  were 


BEYOND  9 

lovers,  not  only  in  thought  but  in  deed.  A  thing  so 
utterly  beyond  "good  form"  and  his  sense  of  what 
was  honourable  and  becoming  in  an  officer  and  gen- 
tleman that  it  was  simply  never  a  question  of  weigh- 
ing pro  and  con,  the  cons  had  it  so  completely.  And 
yet  from  that  first  evening,  he  was  hers,  she  his. 
For  each  of  them  the  one  thought  was  how  to  be 
with  the  other.  If  so — why  did  they  not  at  least 
go  off  together?  Not  for  want  of  his  beseeching. 
And  no  doubt,  if  she  had  survived  Gyp's  birth,  they 
would  have  gone.  But  to  face  the  prospect  of  ruin- 
ing two  men,  as  it  looked  to  her,  had  till  then  been 
too  much  for  that  soft-hearted  creature.  Death 
stilled  her  struggle  before  it  was  decided.  There  are 
women  in  whom  utter  devotion  can  still  go  hand  in 
hand  with  a  doubting  soul.  Such  are  generally  the 
most  fascinating;  for  the  power  of  hard  and  prompt 
decision  robs  women  of  mystery,  of  the  subtle  atmos- 
phere of  change  and  chance.  Though  she  had  but 
one  part  in  four  of  foreign  blood,  she  was  not  at  all 
English.  But  Winton  was  English  to  his  back-bone, 
English  in  his  sense  of  form,  and  in  that  curious 
streak  of  whole-hearted  desperation  that  will  break 
form  to  smithereens  in  one  department  and  leave  it 
untouched  in  every  other  of  its  owner's  life.  To 
have  called  Winton  a  "crank"  would  never  have 
occurred  to  any  one — his  hair  was  always  perfectly 
parted;  his  boots  glowed;  he  was  hard  and  reticent, 
accepting  and  observing  every  canon  of  well-bred 
existence.  Yet,  in  that,  his  one  infatuation,  he  was 
as  lost  to  the  world  and  its  opinion  as  the  longest- 


io  BEYOND 

haired  lentil-eater  of  us  all.  Though  at  any  moment 
during  that  one  year  of  their  love  he  would  have 
risked  his  life  and  sacrificed  his  career  for  a  whole 
day  in  her  company,  he  never,  by  word  or  look, 
compromised  her.  He  had  carried  his  punctilious 
observance  of  her  "honour"  to  a  point  more  bitter 
than  death,  consenting,  even,  to  her  covering  up 
the  tracks  of  their  child's  coming.  Paying  that 
gambler's  debt  was  by  far  the  bravest  deed  of  his 
life,  and  even  now  its  memory  festered. 

To  this  very  room  he  had  come  back  after  hear- 
ing she  was  dead;  this  very  room  which  he  had  re- 
furnished to  her  taste,  so  that  even  now,  with  its 
satinwood  chairs,  little  dainty  Jacobean  bureau, 
shaded  old  brass  candelabra,  divan,  it  still  had  an 
air  exotic  to  bachelordom.  There,  on  the  table,  had 
been  a  letter  recalling  him  to  his  regiment,  ordered 
on  active  service.  If  he  had  realized  what  he  would 
go  through  before  he  had  the  chance  of  trying  to 
lose  his  life  out  there,  he  would  undoubtedly  have 
taken  that  life,  sitting  in  this  very  chair  before  the 
fire — the  chair  sacred  to  her  and  memory.  He  had 
not  the  luck  he  wished  for  in  that  little  war — men 
who  don't  care  whether  they  live  or  die  seldom  have. 
He  secured  nothing  but  distinction.  When  it  was 
over,  he  went  on,  with  a  few  more  fines  in  his  face, 
a  few  more  wrinkles  in  his  heart,  soldiering,  shoot- 
ing tigers,  pig-sticking,  playing  polo,  riding  to  hounds 
harder  than  ever;  giving  nothing  away  to  the  world; 
winning  steadily  the  curious,  uneasy  admiration  that 
men  feel  for  those  who  combine  reckless  daring  with 


BEYOND  II 

an  ice-cool  manner.  Since  he  was  less  of  a  talker 
even  than  most  of  his  kind,  and  had  never  in  his 
life  talked  of  women,  he  did  not  gain  the  reputation 
of  a  woman-hater,  though  he  so  manifestly  avoided 
them.  After  six  years'  service  in  India  and  Egypt, 
he  lost  his  right  hand  in  a  charge  against  dervishes, 
and  had,  perforce,  to  retire,  with  the  rank  of  major, 
aged  thirty-four.  For  a  long  time  he  had  hated  the 
very  thought  of  the  child — his  child,  in  giving  birth 
to  whom  the  woman  he  loved  had  died.  Then  came 
a  curious  change  of  feeling;  and  for  three  years  be- 
fore his  return  to  England,  he  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  sending  home  odds  and  ends  picked  up  in  the 
bazaars,  to  serve  as  toys.  In  return,  he  had  re- 
ceived, twice  annually  at  least,  a  letter  from  the 
man  who  thought  himself  Gyp's  father.  These  let- 
ters he  read  and  answered.  The  squire  was  likable, 
and  had  been  fond  of  her;  and  though  never  once 
had  it  seemed  possible  to  Winton  to  have  acted 
otherwise  than  he  did,  he  had  all  the  time  preserved 
a  just  and  formal  sense  of  the  wrong  he  had  done 
this  man.  He  did  not  experience  remorse,  but  he 
had  always  an  irksome  feeling  as  of  a  debt  unpaid, 
mitigated  by  knowledge  that  no  one  had  ever  sus- 
pected, and  discounted  by  memory  of  the  awful  tor- 
ture he  had  endured  to  make  sure  against  suspicion. 
When,  plus  distinction  and  minus  his  hand,  he 
was  at  last  back  in  England,  the  squire  had  come 
to  see  him.  The  poor  man  was  failing  fast  from 
Bright's  disease.  Winton  entered  again  that  house 
in  Mount  Street  with  an  emotion,  to  stifle  which  re- 


12  BEYOND 

quired  more  courage  than  any  cavalry  charge.  But 
one  whose  heart,  as  he  would  have  put  it,  is  "in 
the  right  place"  does  not  indulge  the  quaverings  of 
his  nerves,  and  he  faced  those  rooms  where  he  had 
last  seen  her,  faced  that  lonely  little  dinner  with  her 
husband,  without  sign  of  feeling.  He  did  not  see 
little  Ghita,  or  Gyp,  as  she  had  nicknamed  herself, 
for  she  was  already  in  her  bed;  and  it  was  a  whole 
month  before  he  brought  himself  to  go  there  at  an 
hour  when  he  could  see  the  child  if  he  would.  The 
fact  is,  he  was  afraid.  What  would  the  sight  of  this 
little  creature  stir  in  him?  When  Betty,  the  nurse, 
brought  her  in  to  see  the  soldier  gentleman  with 
"the  leather  hand,"  who  had  sent  her  those  funny 
toys,  she  stood  calmly  staring  with  her  large,  deep- 
brown  eyes.  Being  seven,  her  little  brown-velvet 
frock  barely  reached  the  knees  of  her  thin,  brown- 
stockinged  legs  planted  one  just  in  front  of  the 
other,  as  might  be  the  legs  of  a  small  brown  bird; 
the  oval  of  her  gravely  wondering  face  was  warm 
cream  colour  without  red  in  it,  except  that  of  the 
lips,  which  were  neither  full  nor  thin,  and  had  a  lit- 
tle tuck,  the  tiniest  possible  dimple  at  one  corner. 
Her  hair  of  warm  dark  brown  had  been  specially 
brushed  and  tied  with  a  narrow  red  ribbon  back 
from  her  forehead,  which  was  broad  and  rather  low, 
and  this  added  to  her  gravity.  Her  eyebrows  were 
thin  and  dark  and  perfectly  arched;  her  little  nose 
was  perfectly  straight,  her  little  chin  in  perfect  bal- 
ance between  round  and  point.  She  stood  and 
stared  till  Winton  smiled.    Then  the  gravity  of  her 


BEYOND  13 

face  broke,  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  seemed  to  fly  a 
little.  And  Winton's  heart  turned  over  within  him 
— she  was  the  very  child  of  her  that  he  had  lost! 
And  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  him  to 
tremble : 

"Well,  Gyp?" 

"Thank  you  for  my  toys;  I  like  them." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  gravely  put  her 
small  hand  into  it.  A  sense  of  solace,  as  if  some  one 
had  slipped  a  finger  in  and  smoothed  his  heart,  came 
over  Winton.  Gently,  so  as  not  to  startle  her,  he 
raised  her  hand  a  little,  bent,  and  kissed  it.  It  may 
have  been  from  his  instant  recognition  that  here 
was  one  as  sensitive  as  child  could  be,  or  the  way 
many  soldiers  acquire  from  dealing  with  their  men 
— those  simple,  shrewd  children — or  some  deeper  in- 
stinctive sense  of  ownership  between  them;  what- 
ever it  was,  from  that  moment,  Gyp  conceived  for 
him  a  mshing  admiration,  one  of  those  headlong 
affections  children  will  sometimes  take  for  the  most 
unlikely  persons. 

He  used  to  go  there  at  an  hour  when  he  knew  the 
squire  would  be  asleep,  between  two  and  five.  After 
he  had  been  with  Gyp,  walking  in  the  park,  riding 
with  her  in  the  Row,  or  on  wet  days  sitting  in  her 
lonely  nursery  telling  stories,  while  stout  Betty 
looked  on  half  hypnotized,  a  rather  queer  and 
doubting  look  on  her  comfortable  face — after  such 
hours,  he  found  it  difficult  to  go  to  the  squire's  study 
and  sit  opposite  him,  smoking.  Those  interviews 
reminded  him  too  much  of  past  days,  when  he  had 


14  BEYOND 

kept  such  desperate  check  on  himself — too  much 
of  the  old  inward  chafing  against  the  other  man's 
legal  ownership — too  much  of  the  debt  owing.  But 
Winton  was  triple-proofed  against  betrayal  of  feel- 
ing. The  squire  welcomed  him  eagerly,  saw  noth- 
ing, felt  nothing,  was  grateful  for  his  goodness  to 
the  child.  Well,  well !  He  had  died  in  the  follow- 
ing spring.  And  Winton  found  that  he  had  been 
made  Gyp's  guardian  and  trustee.  Since  his  wife's 
death,  the  squire  had  muddled  his  affairs,  his  estate 
was  heavily  mortgaged;  but  Winton  accepted  the 
position  with  an  almost  savage  satisfaction,  and, 
from  that  moment,  schemed  deeply  to  get  Gyp  all 
to  himself.  The  Mount  Street  house  was  sold;  the 
Lincolnshire  place  let.  She  and  Nurse  Betty  were 
installed  at  his  own  hunting-box,  Mildenham.  In 
this  effort  to  get  her  away  from  all  the  squire's  rela- 
tions, he  did  not  scruple  to  employ  to  the  utmost 
the  power  he  undoubtedly  had  of  making  people  feel 
him  unapproachable.  He  was  never  impolite  to  any 
of  them;  he  simply  froze  them  out.  Having  plenty 
of  money  himself,  his  motives  could  not  be  called  in 
question.  In  one  year  he  had  isolated  her  from  all 
except  stout  Betty.  He  had  no  qualms,  for  Gyp 
was  no  more  happy  away  from  him  than  he  from 
her.  He  had  but  one  bad  half -hour.  It  came  when 
he  had  at  last  decided  that  she  should  be  called  by 
his  name,  if  not  legally  at  least  by  custom,  round 
Mildenham.  It  was  to  Markey  he  had  given  the 
order  that  Gyp  was  to  be  little  Miss  Winton  for 
the  future.     When  he  came  in  from  hunting  that 


BEYOND  15 

day,  Betty  was  waiting  in  his  study.  She  stood  in 
the  centre  of  the  emptiest  part  of  that  rather  dingy 
room,  as  far  as  possible  away  from  any  good  or 
chattel.  How  long  she  had  been  standing  there, 
heaven  only  knew;  but  her  round,  rosy  face  was 
confused  between  awe  and  resolution,  and  she  had 
made  a  sad  mess  of  her  white  apron.  Her  blue  eyes 
met  Winton's  with  a  sort  of  desperation. 

"About  what  Markey  told  me,  sir.  My  old  mas- 
ter wouldn't  have  liked  it,  sir." 

Touched  on  the  raw  by  this  reminder  that  before 
the  world  he  had  been  nothing  to  the  loved  one, 
that  before  the  world  the  squire,  who  had  been 
nothing  to  her,  had  been  everything,  Winton  said 
icily: 

"Indeed!  You  will  be  good  enough  to  comply 
with  my  wish,  all  the  same." 

The  stout  woman's  face  grew  very  red.  She  burst 
out,  breathless: 

"Yes,  sir;  but  I've  seen  what  I've  seen.  I  never 
said  anything,  but  I've  got  eyes.  If  Miss  Gyp's  to 
take  your  name,  sir,  then  tongues'll  wag,  and  my 
dear,  dead  mistress " 

But  at  the  look  on  his  face  she  stopped,  with  her 
mouth  open. 

"You  will  be  kind  enough  to  keep  your  thoughts 
to  yourself.  If  any  word  or  deed  of  yours  gives  the 
slightest  excuse  for  talk — you  go.  Understand  me, 
you  go,  and  you  never  see  Gyp  again!  In  the 
meantime  you  will  do  what  I  ask.  Gyp  is  my 
adopted  daughter." 


1 6  BEYOND 

She  had  always  been  a  little  afraid  of  him,  but 
she  had  never  seen  that  look  in  his  eyes  or  heard 
him  speak  in  that  voice.  And  she  bent  her  full 
moon  of  a  face  and  went,  with  her  apron  crumpled 
as  apron  had  never  been,  and  tears  in  her  eyes. 
And  Winton,  at  the  window,  watching  the  darkness 
gather,  the  leaves  flying  by  on  a  sou'-westerly  wind, 
drank  to  the  dregs  a  cup  of  bitter  triumph.  He 
had  never  had  the  right  to  that  dead,  forever-loved 
mother  of  his  child.  He  meant  to  have  the  child. 
If  tongues  must  wag,  let  them !  This  was  a  defeat 
of  all  his  previous  precaution,  a  deep  victory  of 
natural  instinct.  And  his  eyes  narrowed  and  stared 
into  the  darkness. 


II 

In  spite  of  his  victory  over  all  human  rivals  in  the 
heart  of  Gyp,  Winton  had  a  rival  whose  strength  he 
fully  realized  perhaps  for  the  first  time  now  that 
she  was  gone,  and  he,  before  the  fire,  was  brooding 
over  her  departure  and  the  past.  Not  likely  that 
one  of  his  decisive  type,  whose  life  had  so  long  been 
bound  up  with  swords  and  horses,  would  grasp  what 
music  might  mean  to  a  little  girl.  Such  ones,  he 
knew,  required  to  be  taught  scales,  and  "In  a  Cot- 
tage near  a  Wood"  with  other  melodies.  He  took 
care  not  to  go  within  sound  of  them,  so  that  he  had 
no  conception  of  the  avidity  with  which  Gyp  had 
mopped  up  all,  and  more  than  all,  her  governess 
could  teach  her.  He  was  blind  to  the  rapture  with 
which  she  listened  to  any  stray  music  that  came 
its  way  to  Mildenham — to  carols  in  the  Christmas 
dark,  to  certain  hymns,  and  one  special  "Nunc  Di- 
mittis"  in  the  village  church,  attended  with  a  hope- 
less regularity;  to  the  horn  of  the  hunter  far  out  in 
the  quivering,  dripping  coverts;  even  to  Markey's 
whistling,  which  was  full  and  strangely  sweet. 

He  could  share  her  love  of  dogs  and  horses,  take 
an  anxious  interest  in  her  way  of  catching  bumble- 
bees in  the  hollow  of  her  hand  and  putting  them  to 
her  small,  delicate  ears  to  hear  them  buzz,  sympa- 
thize with  her  continual  ravages  among  the  flower- 
beds, in  the  old-fashioned  garden,  full  of  lilacs  and 

17 


18  BEYOND 

laburnums  in  spring,  pinks,  roses,  cornflowers  in 
summer,  dahlias  and  sunflowers  in  autumn,  and 
always  a  little  neglected  and  overgrown,  a  little 
squeezed  in,  and  elbowed  by  the  more  important 
surrounding  paddocks.  He  could  sympathize  with 
her  attempts  to  draw  his  attention  to  the  song  of 
birds;  but  it  was  simply  not  in  him  to  understand 
how  she  loved  and  craved  for  music.  She  was  a 
cloudy  little  creature,  up  and  down  in  mood — rather 
like  a  brown  lady  spaniel  that  she  had,  now  gay  as 
a  butterfly,  now  brooding  as  night.  Any  touch  of 
harshness  she  took  to  heart  fearfully.  She  was  the 
strangest  compound  of  pride  and  self-disparage- 
ment; the  qualities  seemed  mixed  in  her  so  deeply 
that  neither  she  nor  any  one  knew  of  which  her 
cloudy  fits  were  the  result.  Being  so  sensitive,  she 
" fancied"  things  terribly.  Things  that  others  did 
to  her,  and  thought  nothing  of,  often  seemed  to  her 
conclusive  evidence  that  she  was  not  loved  by  any- 
body, which  was  dreadfully  unjust,  because  she 
wanted  to  love  everyone — nearly.  Then  suddenly 
she  would  feel:  "If  they  don't  love  me,  I  don't  care. 
I  don't  want  anything  of  anybody !"  Presently,  all 
would  blow  away  just  like  a  cloud,  and  she  would 
love  and  be  gay,  until  something  fresh,  perhaps  not 
at  all  meant  to  hurt  her,  would  again  hurt  her  hor- 
ribly. In  reality,  the  whole  household  loved  and 
admired  her.  But  she  was  one  of  those  delicate- 
treading  beings,  born  with  a  skin  too  few,  who — and 
especially  in  childhood — suffer  from  themselves  in  a 
world  born  with  a  skin  too  many. 


BEYOND  19 

To  Winton's  extreme  delight,  she  took  to  riding 
as  a  duck  to  water,  and  knew  no  fear  on  horseback. 
She  had  the  best  governess  he  could  get  her,  the 
daughter  of  an  admiral,  and,  therefore,  in  distressed 
circumstances;  and  later  on,  a  tutor  for  her  music, 
who  came  twice  a  week  all  the  way  from  London — 
a  sardonic  man  who  cherished  for  her  even  more 
secret  admiration  than  she  for  him.  In  fact,  every 
male  thing  fell  in  love  with  her  at  least  a  little. 
Unlike  most  girls,  she  never  had  an  epoch  of  awk- 
ward plainness,  but  grew  like  a  flower,  evenly,  stead- 
ily. Winton  often  gazed  at  her  with  a  sort  of  in- 
toxication; the  turn  of  her  head,  the  way  those  per- 
fectly shaped,  wonderfully  clear  brown  eyes  would 
"fly,"  the  set  of  her  straight,  round  neck,  the  very 
shaping  of  her  limbs  were  all  such  poignant  remind- 
ers of  what  he  had  so  loved.  And  yet,  for  all  that 
likeness  to  her  mother,  there  was  a  difference,  both 
in  form  and  character.  Gyp  had,  as  it  were,  an 
extra  touch  of  "  breeding,"  more  chiselling  in  body, 
more  fastidiousness  in  soul,  a  little  more  poise,  a 
little  more  sheer  grace;  in  mood,  more  variance,  in 
mind,  more  clarity  and,  mixed  with  her  sweetness, 
a  distinct  spice  of  scepticism  which  her  mother  had 
lacked. 

In  modern  times  there  are  no  longer  "toasts,"  or 
she  would  have  been  one  with  both  the  hunts. 
Though  delicate  in  build,  she  was  not  frail,  and 
when  her  blood  was  up  would  "go"  all  day,  and 
come  in  so  bone-tired  that  she  would  drop  on  to 
the  tiger  skin  before  the  fire,  rather  than  face  the 


20  BEYOND 

stairs.  Life  at  Mildenham  was  lonely,  save  for 
Winton's  hunting  cronies,  and  they  but  few,  for  his 
spiritual  dandyism  did  not  gladly  suffer  the  average 
country  gentleman  and  his  frigid  courtesy  frightened 
women. 

Besides,  as  Betty  had  foreseen,  tongues  did  wag 
— those  tongues  of  the  countryside,  avid  of  anything 
that  might  spice  the  tedium  of  dull  lives  and  brains. 
And,  though  no  breath  of  gossip  came  to  Winton's 
ears,  no  women  visited  at  Mildenham.  Save  for 
the  friendly  casual  acquaintanceships  of  churchyard, 
hunting-field,  and  local  race-meetings,  Gyp  grew  up 
knowing  hardly  any  of  her  own  sex.  This  dearth 
developed  her  reserve,  kept  her  backward  in  sex- 
perception,  gave  her  a  faint,  unconscious  contempt 
for  men— creatures  always  at  the  beck  and  call  of 
her  smile,  and  so  easily  disquieted  by  a  little  frown 
— gave  her  also  a  secret  yearning  for  companions  of 
her  own  gender.  Any  girl  or  woman  that  she  did 
chance  to  meet  always  took  a  fancy  to  her,  because 
she  was  so  nice  to  them,  which  made  the  transitory 
nature  of  these  friendships  tantalizing.  She  was  in- 
capable of  jealousies  or  backbiting.  Let  men  be- 
ware of  such — there  is  coiled  in  their  fibre  a  secret 
fascination ! 

Gyp's  moral  and  spiritual  growth  was  not  the  sort 
of  subject  that  Winton  could  pay  much  attention 
to.  It  was  pre-eminently  a  matter  one  did  not  talk 
about.  Outward  forms,  such  as  going  to  church, 
should  be  preserved;  manners  should  be  taught  her 
by  his  own  example  as  much  as  possible;  beyond 


BEYOND  21 

this,  nature  must  look  after  things.  His  view  had 
much  real  wisdom.  She  was  a  quick  and  voracious 
reader,  bad  at  remembering  what  she  read;  and 
though  she  had  soon  devoured  all  the  books  in  Win- 
ton's  meagre  library,  including  Byron,  Whyte-Mel- 
ville,  and  Humboldt's  "Cosmos,"  they  had  not  left 
too  much  on  her  mind.  The  attempts  of  her  little 
governess  to  impart  religion  were  somewhat  arid  of 
result,  and  the  interest  of  the  vicar,  Gyp,  with  her 
instinctive  spice  of  scepticism  soon  put  into  the 
same  category  as  the  interest  of  all  the  other  males 
she  knew.  She  felt  that  he  enjoyed  calling  her 
"my  dear"  and  patting  her  shoulder,  and  that 
this  enjoyment  was  enough  reward  for  his  exer- 
tions. 

Tucked  away  in  that  little  old  dark  manor  house, 
whose  stables  alone  were  up  to  date — three  hours 
from  London,  and  some  thirty  miles  from  The  Wash, 
it  must  be  confessed  that  her  upbringing  lacked 
modernity.  About  twice  a  year,  Wlnton  took  her 
up  to  town  to  stay  with  his  unmarried  sister  Rosa- 
mund in  Curzon  Street.  Those  weeks,  if  they  did 
nothing  else,  increased  her  natural  taste  for  charm- 
ing clothes,  fortified  her  teeth,  and  fostered  her  pas- 
sion for  music  and  the  theatre.  But  the  two  main 
nourishments  of  the  modern  girl — discussion  and 
games — she  lacked  utterly.  Moreover,  those  years 
of  her  life  from  fifteen  to  nineteen  were  before  the 
social  resurrection  of  1906,  and  the  world  still  crawled 
like  a  winter  fly  on  a  window-pane.  Winton  was  a 
Tory,  Aunt  Rosamund  a  Tory,  everybody  round  her 


22  BEYOND 

a  Tory.  The  only  spiritual  development  she  under- 
went all  those  years  of  her  girlhood  was  through  her 
headlong  love  for  her  father.  After  all,  was  there 
any  other  way  in  which  she  could  really  have  devel- 
oped? Only  love  makes  fruitful  the  soul.  The 
sense  of  form  that  both  had  in  such  high  degree  pre- 
vented much  demonstration;  but  to  be  with  him,  do 
things  for  him,  to  admire,  and  credit  him  with  per- 
fection; and,  since  she  could  not  exactly  wear  the 
same  clothes  or  speak  in  the  same  clipped,  quiet, 
decisive  voice,  to  dislike  the  clothes  and  voices  of 
other  men — all  this  was  precious  to  her  beyond 
everything.  If  she  inherited  from  him  that  fastidi- 
ous sense  of  form,  she  also  inherited  his  capacity  for 
putting  all  her  eggs  in  one  basket.  And  since  her 
company  alone  gave  him  real  happiness,  the  current 
of  love  flowed  over  her  heart  all  the  time.  Though 
she  never  realized  it,  abundant  love  for  somebody 
was  as  necessary  to  her  as  water  running  up  the 
stems  of  flowers,  abundant  love  from  somebody  as 
needful  as  sunshine  on  their  petals.  And  Winton's 
somewhat  frequent  little  runs  to  town,  to  Newmar- 
ket, or  where  not,  were  always  marked  in  her  by  a 
fall  of  the  barometer,  which  recovered  as  his  return 
grew  near. 

One  part  of  her  education,  at  all  events,  was  not 
neglected — cultivation  of  an  habitual  sympathy  with 
her  poorer  neighbours.  Without  concerning  himself 
in  the  least  with  problems  of  sociology,  Winton  had 
by  nature  an  open  hand  and  heart  for  cottagers,  and 
abominated  interference  with  their  lives.    And  so 


BEYOND  23 

it  came  about  that  Gyp,  who,  by  nature  also  never 
set  foot  anywhere  without  invitation,  was  always 
hearing  the  words:  "Step  in,  Miss  Gyp";  "Step  in, 
and  sit  down,  lovey,"  and  a  good  many  words  be- 
sides from  even  the  boldest  and  baddest  characters. 
There  is  nothing  like  a  soft  and  pretty  face  and 
sympathetic  listening  for  seducing  the  hearts  of 
"the  people." 

So  passed  the  eleven  years  till  she  was  nineteen 
and  Winton  forty-six.  Then,  under  the  wing  of 
her  little  governess,  she  went  to  the  hunt-ball.  She 
had  revolted  against  appearing  a  "fluffy  miss," 
wanting  to  be  considered  at  once  full-fledged;  so  that 
her  dress,  perfect  in  fit,  was  not  white  but  palest 
maize-colour,  as  if  she  had  already  been  to  dances. 
She  had  all  Winton's  dandyism,  and  just  so  much 
more  as  was  appropriate  to  her  sex.  With  her  dark 
hair,  wonderfully  fluffed  and  coiled,  waving  across 
her  forehead,  her  neck  bare  for  the  first  time,  her 
eyes  really  "flying,"  and  a  demeanour  perfectly  cool 
— as  though  she  knew  that  light  and  movement, 
covetous  looks,  soft  speeches,  and  admiration  were 
her  birthright — she  was  more  beautiful  than  even 
Winton  had  thought  her.  At  her  breast  she  wore 
some  sprigs  of  yellow  jasmine  procured  by  him  from 
town — a  flower  of  whose  scent  she  was  very  fond, 
and  that  he  had  never  seen  worn  in  ballrooms. 
That  swaying,  delicate  creature,  warmed  by  excite- 
ment, reminded  him,  in  every  movement  and  by 
every  glance  of  her  eyes,  of  her  whom  he  had  first 
met  at  just  such  a  ball  as  this.     And  by  the  carriage 


24  BEYOND 

of  his  head,  the  twist  of  his  little  moustache,  he  con- 
veyed to  the  world  the  pride  he  was  feeling. 

That  evening  held  many  sensations  for  Gyp — 
some  delightful,  one  confused,  one  unpleasant.  She 
revelled  in  her  success.  Admiration  was  very  dear 
to  her.  She  passionately  enjoyed  dancing,  loved 
feeling  that  she  was  dancing  well  and  giving  plea- 
sure. But,  twice  over,  she  sent  away  her  partners, 
smitten  with  compassion  for  her  little  governess  sit- 
ting there  against  the  wall — all  alone,  with  no  one 
to  take  notice  of  her,  because  she  was  elderly,  and 
roundabout,  poor  darling !  And,  to  that  loyal  per- 
son's horror,  she  insisted  on  sitting  beside  her  all 
through  two  dances.  Nor  would  she  go  in  to  supper 
with  anyone  but  Winton.  Returning  to  the  ball- 
room on  his  arm,  she  overheard  an  elderly  woman 
say:  "Oh,  don't  you  know?  Of  course  he  really  is 
her  father !"  and  an  elderly  man  answer:  "Ah,  that 
accounts  for  it — quite  so !"  With  those  eyes  at  the 
back  of  the  head  which  the  very  sensitive  possess, 
she  could  see  their  inquisitive,  cold,  slightly  mali- 
cious glances,  and  knew  they  were  speaking  of  her. 
And  just  then  her  partner  came  for  her. 

"Really  is  her  father!"  The  words  meant  too 
much  to  be  grasped  this  evening  of  full  sensations. 
They  left  a  little  bruise  somewhere,  but  softened  and 
anointed,  just  a  sense  of  confusion  at  the  back  of 
her  mind.  And  very  soon  came  that  other  sensa- 
tion, so  disillusioning,  that  all  else  was  crowded  out. 
It  was  after  a  dance — a  splendid  dance  with  a  good- 
looking  man  quite  twice  her  age.     They  were  sitting 


BEYOND  25 

behind  some  palms,  he  murmuring  in  his  mellow, 
flown  voice  admiration  for  her  dress,  when  suddenly 
he  bent  his  flushed  face  and  kissed  her  bare  arm 
above  the  elbow.  If  he  had  hit  her  he  could  not 
have  astonished  or  hurt  her  more.  It  seemed  to  her 
innocence  that  he  would  never  have  done  such  a 
thing  if  she  had  not  said  something  dreadful  to  en- 
courage him.  Without  a  word  she  got  up,  gazed  at 
him  a  moment  with  eyes  dark  from  pain,  shivered, 
and  slipped  away.  She  went  straight  to  Winton. 
From  her  face,  all  closed  up,  tightened  lips,  and  the 
familiar  little  droop  at  their  corners,  he  knew  some- 
thing dire  had  happened,  and  his  eyes  boded  ill  for 
the  person  who  had  hurt  her;  but  she  would  say 
nothing  except  that  she  was  tired  and  wanted  to  go 
home.  And  so,  with  the  little  faithful  governess, 
who,  having  been  silent  perforce  nearly  all  the  eve- 
ning, was  now  full  of  conversation,  they  drove  out 
into  the  frosty  night.  Winton  sat  beside  the  chauf- 
feur, smoking  viciously,  his  fur  collar  turned  up  over 
his  ears,  his  eyes  stabbing  the  darkness,  under  his 
round,  low-drawn  fur  cap.  Who  had  dared  upset  his 
darling?  And,  within  the  car,  the  little  governess 
chattered  softly,  and  Gyp,  shrouded  in  lace,  in  her 
dark  corner  sat  silent,  seeing  nothing  but  the  vision 
of  that  insult.     Sad  end  to  a  lovely  night ! 

She  lay  awake  long  hours  in  the  darkness,  while  a 
sort  of  coherence  was  forming  in  her  mind.  Those 
words:  " Really  is  her  father !"  and  that  man's  kiss- 
ing of  her  bare  arm  were  a  sort  of  revelation  of  sex- 
mystery,  hardening  the  consciousness  that  there  was 


26  BEYOND 

something  at  the  back  of  her  life.  A  child  so  sensi- 
tive had  not,  of  course,  quite  failed  to  feel  the  spiri- 
tual draughts  around  her;  but  instinctively  she  had 
recoiled  from  more  definite  perceptions.  The  time 
before  Winton  came  was  all  so  faint — Betty,  toys, 
short  glimpses  of  a  kind,  invalidish  man  called 
"Papa."  As  in  that  word  there  was  no  depth  com- 
pared with  the  word  "Dad"  bestowed  on  Winton, 
so  there  had  been  no  depth  in  her  feelings  towards 
the  squire.  When  a  girl  has  no  memory  of  her 
mother,  how  dark  are  many  things !  None,  except 
Betty,  had  ever  talked  of  her  mother.  There  was 
nothing  sacred  in  Gyp's  associations,  no  faiths  to  be 
broken  by  any  knowledge  that  might  come  to  her; 
isolated  from  other  girls,  she  had  little  realisation 
even  of  the  conventions.  Still,  she  suffered  horribly, 
lying  there  in  the  dark — from  bewilderment,  from 
thorns  dragged  over  her  skin,  rather  than  from  a 
stab  in  the  heart.  The  knowledge  of  something 
about  her  conspicuous,  doubtful,  provocative  of  in- 
sult, as  she  thought,  grievously  hurt  her  delicacy. 
Those  few  wakeful  hours  made*  a  heavy  mark.  She 
fell  asleep  at  last,  still  all  in  confusion,  and  woke  up 
with  a  passionate  desire  to  know.  All  that  morning 
she  sat  at  her  piano,  playing,  refusing  to  go  out, 
frigid  to  Betty  and  the  little  governess,  till  the  for- 
mer was  reduced  to  tears  and  the  latter  to  Words- 
worth. After  tea  she  went  to  Winton's  study,  that 
dingy  little  room  where  he  never  studied  anything, 
with  leather  chairs  and  books  which — except  "Mr. 
Jorrocks,"  Byron,  those  on  the  care  of  horses,  and 


BEYOND  27 

the  novels  of  Whyte-Melville — were  never  reau;  with 
prints  of  superequine  celebrities,  his  sword,  and 
photographs  of  Gyp  and  of  brother  officers  on  the 
walls.  Two  bright  spots  there  were  indeed — the 
fire,  and  the  little  bowl  that  Gyp  always  kept  filled 
with  flowers. 

When  she  came  gliding  in  like  that,  a  slender, 
rounded  figure,  her  creamy,  dark-eyed,  oval  face  all 
cloudy,  she  seemed  to  Winton  to  have  grown  up  of 
a  sudden.  He  had  known  all  day  that  something 
was  coming,  and  had  been  cudgelling  Ins  brains 
finely.  From  the  fervour  of  his  love  for  her,  he  felt 
an  anxiety  that  was  almost  fear.  What  could  have 
happened  last  night — that  first  night  of  her  entrance 
into  society — meddlesome,  gossiping  society !  She 
slid  down  to  the  floor  against  his  knee.  He  could 
not  see  her  face,  could  not  even  touch  her;  for  she 
had  settled  down  on  his  right  side.  He  mastered  his 
tremors  and  said: 

"Well,  Gyp— tired?" 

"No." 

"A  little  bit?" 

"No." 

"Was  it  up  to  what  you  thought,  last  night?" 

"Yes." 

The  logs  hissed  and  crackled;  the  long  flames  ruf- 
fled in  the  chimney-draught;  the  wind  roared  outside 
— then,  so  suddenly  that  it  took  his  breath  away: 

"Dad,  are  you  really  and  truly  my  father?" 

When  that  which  one  has  always  known  might 
happen  at  last  does  happen,  how  little  one  is  pre- 


28  BEYOND 

pared !  In  the  few  seconds  before  an  answer  that 
could  in  no  way  be  evaded,  Winton  had  time  for  a 
tumult  of  reflection.  A  less  resolute  character  would 
have  been  caught  by  utter  mental  blankness,  then 
flung  itself  in  panic  on  "Yes"  or  "No."  But  Win- 
ton  was  incapable  of  losing  his  head;  he  would  not 
answer  without  having  faced  the  consequences  of  his 
reply.  To  be  her  father  was  the  most  warming  thing 
in  his  life;  but  if  he  avowed  it,  how  far  would  he 
injure  her  love  for  him?  What  did  a  girl  know? 
How  make  her  understand?  What  would  her  feel- 
ing be  about  her  dead  mother?  How  would 
that  dead  loved  one  feel?  What  would  she  have 
wished  ? 

It  was  a  cruel  moment.  And  the  girl,  pressed 
against  his  knee,  with  face  hidden,  gave  him  no  help. 
Impossible  to  keep  it  from  her,  now  that  her  instinct 
was  roused !  Silence,  too,  would  answer  for  him. 
And  clenching  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  he 
said: 

"Yes,  Gyp;  your  mother  and  I  loved  each  other." 

He  felt  a  quiver  go  through  her,  would  have  given 
much  to  see  her  face.  What,  even  now,  did  she 
understand?  Well,  it  must  be  gone  through  with, 
and  he  said: 

"What  made  you  ask?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  murmured: 

"I'm  glad." 

Grief,  shock,  even  surprise  would  have  roused  all 
his  loyalty  to  the  dead,  all  the  old  stubborn  bitter- 
ness,  and  he  would  have  frozen  up  against  her. 


BEYOND  29 

But  this  acquiescent  murmur  made  him  long  to 
smooth  it  down. 

"Nobody  has  ever  known.  She  died  when  you 
were  born.  It  was  a  fearful  grief  to  me.  If  you've 
heard  anything,  it's  just  gossip,  because  you  go  by 
my  name.  Your  mother  was  never  talked  about. 
But  it's  best  you  should  know,  now  you're  grown 
up.  People  don't  often  love  as  she  and  I  loved. 
You  needn't  be  ashamed." 

She  had  not  moved,  and  her  face  was  still  turned 
from  him.     She  said  quietly : 

"I'm  not  ashamed.     Am  I  very  like  her?" 

"Yes;  more  than  I  could  ever  have  hoped." 

Very  low  she  said: 

"Then  you  don't  love  me  for  myself?" 

Winton  was  but  dimly  conscious  of  how  that 
question  revealed  her  nature,  its  power  of  piercing 
instinctively  to  the  heart  of  things,  its  sensitive 
pride,  and  demand  for  utter  and  exclusive  love. 
To  things  that  go  too  deep,  one  opposes  the  bulwark 
of  obtuseness.     And,  smiling,  he  simply  said : 

"What  do  you  think?" 

Then,  to  his  dismay,  he  perceived  that  she  was 
crying — struggling  against  it  so  that  her  shoulder 
shook  against  his  knee.  He  had  hardly  ever  known 
her  cry,  not  in  all  the  disasters  of  unstable  youth, 
and  she  had  received  her  full  meed  of  knocks  and 
tumbles.   He  could  only  stroke  that  shoulder,  and  say : 

"Don't  cry,  Gyp;  don't  cry!" 

She  ceased  as  suddenly  as  she  had  begun,  got  up, 
and,  before  he  too  could  rise,  was  gone. 


30  BEYOND 

That  evening,  at  dinner,  she  was  just  as  usual. 
He  could  not  detect  the  slightest  difference  in  her 
voice  or  manner,  or  in  her  good-night  kiss.  And  so 
a  moment  that  he  had  dreaded  for  years  was  over, 
leaving  only  the  faint  shame  which  follows  a  breach 
of  reticence  on  the  spirits  of  those  who  worship  it. 
While  the  old  secret  had  been  quite  undisclosed, 
it  had  not  troubled  him.  Disclosed,  it  hurt  him. 
But  Gyp,  in  those  twenty-four  hours,  had  left  child- 
hood behind  for  good;  her  feeling  toward  men  had 
hardened.  If  she  did  not  hurt  them  a  little,  they 
would  hurt  her !  The  sex-instinct  had  come  to  life. 
To  Winton  she  gave  as  much  love  as  ever,  even 
more,  perhaps;  but  the  dew  was  off. 


Ill 

The  next  two  years  were  much  less  solitary, 
passed  in  more  or  less  constant  gaiety.  His  confes- 
sion spurred  Winton  on  to  the  fortification  of  his 
daughter's  position.  He  would  stand  no  nonsense, 
would  not  have  her  looked  on  askance.  There  is 
nothing  like  "style"  for  carrying  the  defences  of  so- 
ciety— only,  it  must  be  the  genuine  thing.  Whether 
at  Mildenham,  or  in  London  under  the  wing  of  his 
sister,  there  was  no  difficulty.  Gyp  was  too  pretty, 
Winton  too  cool,  his  quietness  too  formidable. 
She  had  every  advantage.  Society  only  troubles 
itself  to  make  front  against  the  visibly  weak. 

The  happiest  time  of  a  girl's  life  is  that  when  all 
appreciate  and  covet  her,  and  she  herself  is  free  as 
air — a  queen  of  hearts,  for  none  of  which  she  han- 
kers; or,  if  not  the  happiest,  at  all  events  it  is  the 
gayest  time.  What  did  Gyp  care  whether  hearts 
ached  for  her — she  knew  not  love  as  yet,  perhaps 
would  never  know  the  pains  of  unrequited  love.  In- 
toxicated with  life,  she  led  her  many  admirers  a 
pretty  dance,  treating  them  with  a  sort  of  bravura. 
She  did  not  want  them  to  be  unhappy,  but  she  sim- 
ply could  not  take  them  seriously.  Never  was  any 
girl  so  heart-free.  She  was  a  queer  mixture  in  those 
days,  would  give  up  any  pleasure  for  Winton,  and 
most  for  Betty  or  her  aunt — her  little  governess  was 

31 


32  BEYOND 

gone — but  of  nobody  else  did  she  seem  to  take  ac- 
count, accepting  all  that  was  laid  at  her  feet  as  the 
due  of  her  looks,  her  dainty  frocks,  her  music,  her 
good  riding  and  dancing,  her  talent  for  amateur 
theatricals  and  mimicry.  Winton,  whom  at  least 
she  never  failed,  watched  that  glorious  fluttering 
with  quiet  pride  and  satisfaction.  He  was  getting 
to  those  years  when  a  man  of  action  dislikes  inter- 
ruption of  the  grooves  into  which  his  activity  has 
fallen.  He  pursued  his  hunting,  racing,  card-play- 
ing, and  his  very  stealthy  alms  and  services  to  lame 
ducks  of  his  old  regiment,  their  families,  and  other 
unfortunates — happy  in  knowing  that  Gyp  was  al- 
ways as  glad  to  be  with  him  as  he  to  be  with  her. 
Hereditary  gout,  too,  had  begun  to  bother  him. 

The  day  that  she  came  of  age  they  were  up  in 
town,  and  he  summoned  her  to  the  room,  in  which 
he  now  sat  by  the  fire  recalling  all  these  things,  to 
receive  an  account  of  his  stewardship.  He  had 
nursed  her  greatly  embarrassed'  inheritance  very 
carefully  till  it  amounted  to  some  twenty  thousand 
pounds.  He  had  never  told  her  of  it — the  subject 
was  dangerous,  and,  since  his  own  means  were  am- 
ple, she  had  not  wanted  for  anything.  When  he 
had  explained  exactly  what  she  owned,  shown  her 
how  it  was  invested,  and  told  her  that  she  must  now 
open  her  own  banking  account,  she  stood  gazing  at 
the  sheets  of  paper,  whose  items  she  had  been  sup- 
posed to  understand,  and  her  face  gathered  the  look 
which  meant  that  she  was  troubled.  Without  lift- 
ing her  eyes  she  asked: 


BEYOND  33 

"Does  it  all  come  from — him?" 

He  had  not  expected  that,  and  flushed  under  his 
tan. 

"No;  eight  thousand  of  it  was  your  mother's." 

Gyp  looked  at  him,  and  said: 

"Then  I  won't  take  the  rest — please,  Dad." 

Winton  felt  a  sort  of  crabbed  pleasure.  What 
should  be  done  with  that  money  if  she  did  not  take 
it,  he  did  not  in  the  least  know.  But  not  to  take  it 
was  like  her,  made  her  more  than  ever  his  daughter 
— a  kind  of  final  victory.  He  turned  away  to  the 
window  from  which  he  had  so  often  watched  for  her 
mother.  There  was  the  corner  she  used  to  turn ! 
In  one  minute,  surely  she  would  be  standing  there, 
colour  glowing  in  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  soft  behind 
her  veil,  her  breast  heaving  a  little  with  her  haste, 
waiting  for  his  embrace.  There  she  would  stand, 
drawing  up  her  veil.  He  turned  round.  Difficult 
to  believe  it  was  not  she !    And  he  said: 

"Very  well,  my  love.  But  you  will  take  the 
equivalent  from  me  instead.  The  other  can  be  put 
by;  some  one  will  benefit  some  day !" 

At  those  unaccustomed  words,  "My  love,"  from 
his  undemonstrative  lips,  the  colour  mounted  in  her 
cheeks  and  her  eyes  shone.  She  threw  her  arms 
round  his  neck. 

She  had  her  fill  of  music  in  those  days,  taking  piano 
lessons  from  a  Monsieur  Harmost,  a  grey-haired  na- 
tive of  Liege,  with  mahogany  cheeks  and  the  touch 
of  an  angel,  who  kept  her  hard  at  it  and  called  her 
his  "little  friend."    There  was  scarcely  a  concert  of 


34  BEYOND 

merit  that  she  did  not  attend  or  a  musician  of  mark 
whose  playing  she  did  not  know,  and,  though  fas- 
tidiousness saved  her  from  squirming  in  adoration 
round  the  feet  of  those  prodigious  performers,  she 
perched  them  all  on  pedestals,  men  and  women  alike, 
and  now  and  then  met  them  at  her  aunt's  house  in 
Curzon  Street. 

Aunt  Rosamund,  also  musical,  so  far  as  breeding 
would  allow,  stood  for  a  good  deal  to  Gyp,  who  had 
built  up  about  her  a  romantic  story  of  love  wrecked 
by  pride  from  a  few  words  she  had  once  let  drop. 
She  was  a  tall  and  handsome  woman,  a  year  older 
than  Winton,  with  a  long,  aristocratic  face,  deep- 
blue,  rather  sliming  eyes,  a  gentlemanly  manner, 
warm  heart,  and  one  of  those  indescribable,  not  un- 
melodious  drawls  that  one  connects  with  an  un- 
shakable sense  of  privilege.  She,  in  turn,  was  very 
fond  of  Gyp;  and  what  passed  within  her  mind,  by 
no  means  devoid  of  shrewdness,  as  to  their  real  re- 
lationship, remained  ever  discreetly  hidden.  She 
was,  so  far  again  as  breeding  would  allow,  something 
of  a  humanitarian  and  rebel,  loving  horses  and  dogs, 
and  hating  cats,  except  when  they  had  four  legs. 
The  girl  had  just  that  softness  which  fascinates 
women  who  perhaps  might  have  been  happier  if 
they  had  been  born  men.  Not  that  Rosamund  Win- 
ton  was  of  an  aggressive  type — she  merely  had  the 
resolute  "catch  hold  of  your  tail,  old  fellow"  spirit 
so  often  found  in  Englishwomen  of  the  upper  classes. 
A  cheery  soul,  given  to  long  coats  and  waistcoats, 
stocks,  and  a  crutch-handled  stick,  she — like  her 


BEYOND  35 

brother — had  "style,"  but  more  sense  of  humour 
■ — valuable  in  musical  circles!  At  her  house,  the 
girl  was  practically  compelled  to  see  fun  as  well  as 
merit  in  all  those  prodigies,  haloed  with  hair  and 
filled  to  overflowing  with  music  and  themselves. 
And,  since  Gyp's  natural  sense  of  the  ludicrous  was 
extreme,  she  and  her  aunt  could  rarely  talk  about 
anything  without  going  into  fits  of  laughter. 

Winton  had  his  first  really  bad  attack  of  gout 
when  Gyp  was  twenty-two,  and,  terrified  lest  he 
might  not  be  able  to  sit  a  horse  in  time  for  the  open- 
ing meets,  he  went  off  with  her  and  Markey  to 
Wiesbaden.  They  had  rooms  in  the  Wilhelmstrasse, 
overlooking  the  gardens,  where  leaves  were  already 
turning,  that  gorgeous  September.  The  cure  was 
long  and  obstinate,  and  Winton  badly  bored.  Gyp 
fared  much  better.  Attended  by  the  silent  Markey, 
she  rode  daily  on  the  Neroberg,  chafing  at  regula- 
tions which  reduced  her  to  specified  tracks  in  that 
majestic  wood  where  the  beeches  glowed.  Once  or 
even  twice  a  day  she  went  to  the  concerts  in  the 
Kurhaus,  either  with  her  father  or  alone. 

The  first  time  she  heard  Fiorsen  play  she  was 
alone.  Unlike  most  violinists,  he  was  tall  and  thin, 
with  great  pliancy  of  body  and  swift  sway  of  move- 
ment. His  face  was  pale,  and  went  strangely  with 
hair  and  moustache  of  a  sort  of  dirt-gold  colour,  and 
his  thin  cheeks  with  very  broad  high  cheek-bones 
had  little  narrow  scraps  of  whisker.  Those  little 
whiskers  seemed  to  Gyp  awful — indeed,  he  seemed 
rather  awful  altogether — but  his  playing  stirred  and 


36  BEYOND 

swept  her  in  the  most  uncanny  way.  He  had  evi- 
dently remarkable  technique;  and  the  emotion,  the 
intense  wayward  feeling  of  his  playing  was  chiselled 
by  that  technique,  as  if  a  flame  were  being  frozen  in 
its  swaying.  When  he  stopped,  she  did  not  join  in 
the  tornado  of  applause,  but  sat  motionless,  looking 
up  at  him.  Quite  unconstrained  by  all  those  people, 
he  passed  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  hot  brow, 
shoving  up  a  wave  or  two  of  that  queer-coloured 
hair;  then,  with  a  rather  disagreeable  smile,  he  made 
a  short  supple  bow  or  two.  And  she  thought,  "What 
strange  eyes  he  has — like  a  great  cat's!"  Surely 
they  were  green;  fierce,  yet  shy,  almost  furtive — 
mesmeric!  Certainly  the  strangest  man  she  had 
ever  seen,  and  the  most  frightening.  He  seemed 
looking  straight  at  her;  and,  dropping  her  gaze,  she 
clapped.  When  she  looked  again,  his  face  had  lost 
that  smile  for  a  kind  of  wistfulness.  He  made  an- 
other of  those  little  supple  bows  straight  at  her — it 
seemed  to  Gyp — and  jerked  his  violin  up  to  his 
shoulder.  "He's  going  to  play  to  me,"  she  thought 
absurdly.  He  played  without  accompaniment  a  lit- 
tle tune  that  seemed  to  twitch  the  heart.  When  he 
finished,  this  time  she  did  not  look  up,  but  was  con- 
scious that  he  gave  one  impatient  bow  and  walked 
off. 
That  evening  at  dinner  she  said  to  Winton: 
"I  heard  a  violinist  to-day,  Dad,  the  most  won- 
derful playing — Gustav  Fiorsen.  Is  that  Swedish, 
do  you  think — or  what?" 
Winton  answered: 


BEYOND  37 

"Very  likely.  What  sort  of  a  bounder  was  he  to 
look  at?  I  used  to  know  a  Swede  in  the  Turkish 
army — nice  fellow,  too." 

"Tall  and  thin  and  white-faced,  with  bumpy 
cheek-bones,  and  hollows  under  them,  and  queer 
green  eyes.     Oh,  and  little  goldy  side-whiskers." 

"  By  Jove !     It  sounds  the  limit." 

Gyp  murmured,  with  a  smile: 

"Yes;  I  think  perhaps  he  is." 

She  saw  him  next  day  in  the  gardens.  They  were 
sitting  close  to  the  Schiller  statue,  Winton  reading 
The  Times,  to  whose  advent  he  looked  forward  more 
than  he  admitted,  for  he  was  loath  by  confessions  of 
boredom  to  disturb  Gyp's  manifest  enjoyment  of  her 
stay.  While  perusing  the  customary  comforting 
animadversions  on  the  conduct  of  those  "rascally 
Radicals"  who  had  just  come  into  power,  and  the 
account  of  a  Newmarket  meeting,  he  kept  stealing 
sidelong  glances  at  his  daughter. 

Certainly  she  had  never  looked  prettier,  daintier, 
shown  more  breeding  than  she  did  out  here  among 
these  Germans  with  their  thick  pasterns,  and  all  the 
cosmopolitan  hairy-heeled  crowd  in  this  God-for- 
saken place !  The  girl,  unconscious  of  his  stealthy 
regalement,  was  letting  her  clear  eyes  rest,  in  turn, 
on  each  figure  that  passed,  on  the  movements  of 
birds  and  dogs,  watching  the  sunlight  glisten  on  the 
grass,  burnish  the  copper  beeches,  the  lime-trees, 
and  those  tall  poplars  down  there  by  the  water. 
The  doctor  at  Mildenham,  once  consulted  on  a  bout 
of  headache,  had  called  her  eyes  "perfect  organs," 


38  BEYOND 

and  certainly  no  eyes  could  take  things  in  more 
swiftly  or  completely.  She  was  attractive  to  dogs, 
and  every  now  and  then  one  would  stop,  in  two 
minds  whether  or  no  to  put  his  nose  into  this  foreign 
girl's  hand.  From  a  flirtation  of  eyes  with  a  great 
Dane,  she  looked  up  and  saw  Fiorsen  passing,  in 
company  with  a  shorter,  square  man,  having  very 
fashionable  trousers  and  a  corseted  waist.  The  vio- 
linist's tall,  thin,  loping  figure  was  tightly  buttoned 
into  a  brownish-grey  frock-coat  suit;  he  wore  a  rather 
broad-brimmed,  grey,  velvety  hat;  in  his  buttonhole 
was  a  white  flower;  his  cloth- topped  boots  were  of 
patent  leather;  his  tie  was  bunched  out  at  the  ends 
over  a  soft  white-linen  shirt — altogether  quite  a 
dandy!  His  most  strange  eyes  suddenly  swept 
down  on  hers,  and  he  made  a  movement  as  if  to 
put  his  hand  to  his  hat. 

'Why,  he  remembers  me,'  thought  Gyp.  That 
thin-waisted  figure  with  head  set  just  a  little  forward 
between  rather  high  shoulders,  and  its  long  stride, 
curiously  suggested  a  leopard  or  some  lithe  creature. 
He  touched  his  short  companion's  arm,  muttered 
something,  turned  round,  and  came  back.  She  could 
see  him  staring  her  way,  and  knew  he  was  coming 
simply  to  look  at  her.  She  knew,  too,  that  her 
father  was  watching.  And  she  felt  that  those  green- 
ish eyes  would  waver  before  his  stare — that  stare 
of  the  Englishman  of  a  certain  class,  which  never 
condescends  to  be  inquisitive.  They  passed;  Gyp 
saw  Fiorsen  turn  to  his  companion,  slightly  tossing 
back  his  head  in  their  direction,  and  heard  the  com- 
panion laugh.     A  little  flame  shot  up  in  her. 


BEYOND  39 

Winton  said: 

"Rum-looking  Johnnies  one  sees  here!" 

"That  was  the  violinist  I  told  you  of — Fiorsen." 

"  Oh !    Ah ! "    But  he  had  evidently  forgotten. 

The  thought  that  Fiorsen  should  have  picked  her 
out  of  all  that  audience  for  remembrance  subtly 
flattered  her  vanity.  She  lost  her  ruffled  feeling. 
Though  her  father  thought  his  dress  awful,  it  was 
really  rather  becoming.  He  would  not  have  looked 
as  well  in  proper  English  clothes.  Once,  at  least, 
during  the  next  two  days,  she  noticed  the  short, 
square  young  man  who  had  been  walking  with  him, 
and  was  conscious  that  he  followed  her  with  his 
eyes. 

And  then  a  certain  Baroness  von  Maisen,  a  cos- 
mopolitan friend  of  Aunt  Rosamund's,  German  by 
marriage,  half-Dutch,  half-French  by  birth,  asked 
her  if  she  had  heard  the  Swedish  violinist,  Fiorsen. 
He  would  be,  she  said,  the  best  violinist  of  the  day, 
if — and  she  shook  her  head.  Finding  that  expres- 
sive shake  unquestioned,  the  baroness  pursued  her 
thoughts: 

"Ah,  these  musicians!  He  wants  saving  from 
himself.  If  he  does  not  halt  soon,  he  will  be  lost. 
Pity!    A  great  talent!" 

Gyp  looked  at  her  steadily  and  asked : 

"Does  he  drink,  then?" 

"Pas  mal !  But  there  are  things  besides  drink, 
ma  chere." 

Instinct  and  so  much  life  with  Winton  made  the 
girl  regard  it  as  beneath  her  to  be  shocked.  She  did 
not  seek  knowledge  of  life,  but  refused  to  shy  away 


40  BEYOND 

from  it  or  be  discomfited;  and  the  baroness,  to  whom 
innocence  was  piquant,  went  on: 

"Des  femmes — toujours  des  fetnmes  !  Cest  grand 
dommage.  It  will  spoil  his  spirit.  His  sole  chance 
is  to  find  one  woman,  but  I  pity  her;  sapristi,  quelle 
vie  pour  elle  I" 

Gyp  said  calmly: 

"Would  a  man  like  that  ever  love?" 

The  baroness  goggled  her  eyes. 

"I  have  known  such  a  man  become  a  slave.  I 
have  known  him  running  after  a  woman  like  a  lamb 
while  she  was  deceiving  him  here  and  there.  On  ne 
-peut  jamais  dire.  Ma  belle,  il  y  a  des  choses  que  vous 
ne  savez  pas  encore."  She  took  Gyp's  hand.  "And 
yet,  one  thing  is  certain.  With  those  eyes  and  those 
lips  and  that  figure,  you  have  a  time  before  you ! " 

Gyp  withdrew  her  hand,  smiled,  and  shook  her 
head;  she  did  not  believe  in  love. 

"Ah,  but  you  will  turn  some  heads !  No  fear !  as 
you  English  say.  There  is  fatality  in  those  pretty 
brown  eyes ! " 

A  girl  may  be  pardoned  who  takes  as  a  compli- 
ment the  saying  that  her  eyes  are  fatal.  The  words 
warmed  Gyp,  uncontrollably  light-hearted  in  these 
days,  just  as  she  was  warmed  when  people  turned 
to  stare  at  her.  The  soft  air,  the  mellowness  of  this 
gay  place,  much  music,  a  sense  of  being  a  rara  avis 
among  people  who,  by  their  heavier  type,  enhanced 
her  own,  had  produced  in  her  a  kind  of  intoxication, 
making  her  what  the  baroness  called  "un  peufolle." 
She  was  always  breaking  into  laughter,  having  that 


BEYOND  41 

precious  feeling  of  twisting  the  world  round  her 
thumb,  which  does  not  come  too  often  in  the  life  of 
one  who  is  sensitive.  Everything  to  her  just  then 
was  either  " funny"  or  "lovely."  And  the  baroness, 
conscious  of  the  girl's  chic,  genuinely  attracted  by 
one  so  pretty,  took  care  that  she  saw  all  the  people, 
perhaps  more  than  all,  that  were  desirable. 

To  women  and  artists,  between  whom  there  is 
ever  a  certain  kinship,  curiosity  is  a  vivid  emotion. 
Besides,  the  more  a  man  has  conquered,  the  more 
precious  field  he  is  for  a  woman's  conquest.  To  at- 
tract a  man  who  has  attracted  many,  what  is  it  but 
a  proof  that  one's  charm  is  superior  to  that  of  all 
those  others?  The  words  of  the  baroness  deepened 
in  Gyp  the  impression  that  Fiorsen  was  "impossi- 
ble," but  secretly  fortified  the  faint  excitement  she 
felt  that  he  should  have  remembered  her  out  of  all 
that  audience.  Later  on,  they  bore  more  fruit  than 
that.  But  first  came  that  queer  incident  of  the 
flowers. 

Coming  in  from  a  ride,  a  week  after  she  had  sat 
with  Winton  under  the  Schiller  statue,  Gyp  found 
on  her  dressing-table  a  bunch  of  Gloire  de  Dijon 
and  La  France  roses.  Plunging  her  nose  into  them, 
she  thought:  "How  lovely!  Who  sent  me  these?" 
There  was  no  card.  All  that  the  German  maid 
could  say  was  that  a  boy  had  brought  them  from  a 
flower  shop  "fiir  Fraulein  Vinton"',  it  was  surmised 
that  they  came  from  the  baroness.  In  her  bodice 
at  dinner,  and  to  the  concert  after,  Gyp  wore  one 
La  France  and  one  Gloire  de  Dijon — a  daring  mix- 


42  BEYOND 

ture  of  pink  and  orange  against  her  oyster-coloured 
frock,  which  delighted  her,  who  had  a  passion  for 
experiments  in  colour.  They  had  bought  no  pro- 
gramme, all  music  being  the  same  to  Winton,  and 
Gyp  not  needing  any.  When  she  saw  Fiorsen  come 
forward,  her  cheeks  began  to  colour  from  sheer  an- 
ticipation. 

He  played  first  a  minuet  by  Mozart;  then  the 
Cesar  Franck  sonata;  and  when  he  came  back  to 
make  his  bow,  he  was  holding  in  his  hand  a  Gloire 
de  Dijon  and  a  La  France  rose.  Involuntarily,  Gyp 
raised  her  hand  to  her  own  roses.  His  eyes  met 
hers;  he  bowed  just  a  little  lower.  Then,  quite  nat- 
urally, put  the  roses  to  his  lips  as  he  was  walking 
off  the  platform.  Gyp  dropped  her  hand,  as  if  it 
had  been  stung.  Then,  with  the  swift  thought: 
"Oh,  that's  schoolgirlish ! "  she  contrived  a  little 
smile.  But  her  cheeks  were  flushing.  Should  she 
take  out  those  roses  and  let  them  fall?  Her  father 
might  see,  might  notice  Fiorsen's — put  two  and  two 
together !  He  would  consider  she  had  been  insulted. 
Had  she?  She  could  not  bring  herself  to  think  so. 
It  was  too  pretty  a  compliment,  as  if  he  wished  to 
tell  her  that  he  was  playing  to  her  alone.  The 
baroness's  words  flashed  through  her  mind:  "He 
wants  saving  from  himself.  Pity !  A  great  talent ! " 
It  was  a  great  talent.  There  must  be  something 
worth  saving  in  one  who  could  play  like  that !  They 
left  after  his  last  solo.  Gyp  put  the  two  roses  care- 
fully back  among  the  others. 

Three  days  later,  she  went  to  an  afternoon  "at- 


BEYOND  43 

home"  at  the  Baroness  von  Maisen's.  She  saw  him 
at  once,  over  by  the  piano,  with  his  short,  square 
companion,  listening  to  a  voluble  lady,  and  looking 
very  bored  and  restless.  All  that  overcast  after- 
noon, still  and  with  queer  lights  in  the  sky,  as  if  rain 
were  coming,  Gyp  had  been  feeling  out  of  mood,  a 
little  homesick.  Now  she  felt  excited.  She  saw  the 
short  companion  detach  himself  and  go  up  to  the 
baroness;  a  minute  later,  he  was  brought  up  to  her 
and  introduced — Count  Rosek.  Gyp  did  not  like 
his  face;  there  were  dark  rings  under  the  eyes,  and 
he  was  too  perfectly  self-possessed,  with  a  kind  of 
cold  sweetness;  but  he  was  very  agreeable  and  po- 
lite, and  spoke  English  well.  He  was — it  seemed — 
a  Pole,  who  lived  in  London,  and  seemed  to  know 
all  that  was  to  be  known  about  music.  Miss  Win- 
ton — he  believed — had  heard  his  friend  Fiorsen  play; 
but  not  in  London?  No?  That  was  odd;  he  had 
been  there  some  months  last  season.  Faintly  an- 
noyed at  her  ignorance,  Gyp  answered : 

"Yes;  but  I  was  in  the  country  nearly  all  last 
summer." 

"He  had  a  great  success.  I  shall  take  him  back; 
it  is  best  for  his  future.  What  do  you  think  of  his 
playing?" 

In  spite  of  herself,  for  she  did  not  like  ex- 
panding to  this  sphinxlike  little  man,  Gyp  mur- 
mured : 

"Oh,  simply  wonderful,  of  course!" 

He  nodded,  and  then  rather  suddenly  said,  with  a 
peculiar  little  smile: 


44  BEYOND 

"May  I  introduce  him ?    Gustav — Miss  Winton ! " 

Gyp  turned.  There  he  was,  just  behind  her,  bow- 
ing; and  his  eyes  had  a  look  of  humble  adoration 
which  he  made  no  attempt  whatever  to  conceal. 
Gyp  saw  another  smile  slide  over  the  Pole's  lips;  and 
she  was  alone  in  the  bay  window  with  Fiorsen.  The 
moment  might  well  have  fluttered  a  girl's  nerves 
after  his  recognition  of  her  by  the  Schiller  statue, 
after  that  episode  of  the  flowers,  and  what  she  had 
heard  of  him.  But  life  had  not  yet  touched  either 
her  nerves  or  spirit;  she  only  felt  amused  and  a 
little  excited.  Close  to,  he  had  not  so  much  that 
look  of  an  animal  behind  bars,  and  he  certainly  was 
in  his  way  a  dandy,  beautifully  washed — always  an 
important  thing — and  having  some  pleasant  essence 
on  his  handkerchief  or  hair,  of  which  Gyp  would 
have  disapproved  if  he  had  been  English.  He  wore 
a  diamond  ring  also,  which  did  not  somehow  seem 
bad  form  on  that  particular  little  finger.  His 
height,  his  broad  cheek-bones,  thick  but  not  long 
hair,  the  hungry  vitality  of  his  face,  figure,  move- 
ments, annulled  those  evidences  of  femininity.  He 
was  male  enough,  rather  too  male.  Speaking  with 
a  queer,  crisp  accent,  he  said : 

"Miss  Winton,  you  are  my  audience  here.  I  play 
to  you — only  to  you." 

Gyp  laughed. 

"You  laugh  at  me;  but  you  need  not.  I  play  for 
you  because  I  admire  you.  I  admire  you  terribly. 
If  I  sent  you  those  flowers,  it  was  not  to  be  rude. 
It  was  my  gratitude  for  the  pleasure  of  your  face." 


BEYOND  45 

His  voice  actually  trembled.  And,  looking  down, 
Gyp  answered: 

"Thank  you.  It  was  very  kind  of  you.  I  want 
to  thank  you  for  your  playing.  It  is  beautiful — 
really  beautiful !" 

He  made  her  another  little  bow. 

"When  I  go  back  to  London,  will  you  come  and 
hear  me?" 

"I  should  think  any  one  would  go  to  hear  you,  if 
they  had  the  chance." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"Bah  !  Here,  I  do  it  for  money;  I  hate  this  place. 
It  bores  me — bores  me !  Was  that  your  father  sit- 
ting with  you  under  the  statue?" 

Gyp  nodded,  suddenly  grave.  She  had  not  for- 
gotten the  slighting  turn  of  his  head. 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  face,  as  if  to  wipe  off 
its  expression. 

"He  is  very  English.  But  you — of  no  country — 
you  belong  to  all ! " 

Gyp  made  him  an  ironical  little  bow. 

"No;  I  should  not  know  your  country — you  are 
neither  of  the  North  nor  of  the  South.  You  are 
just  Woman,  made  to  be  adored.  I  came  here  hop- 
ing to  meet  you;  I  am  extremely  happy.  Miss  Win- 
ton,  I  am  your  very  devoted  servant." 

He  was  speaking  very  fast,  very  low,  with  an 
agitated  earnestness  that  surely  could  not  be  put 
on.  But  suddenly  muttering:  "These  people!"  he 
made  her  another  of  his  little  bows  and  abruptly 
slipped  away.     The  baroness  was  bringing  up  an- 


46  BEYOND 

other  man.  The  chief  thought  left  by  that  meeting 
was:  "Is  that  how  he  begins  to  everyone?"  She 
could  not  quite  believe  it.  The  stammering  ear- 
nestness of  his  voice,  those  humbly  adoring  looks ! 
Then  she  remembered  the  smile  on  the  lips  of  the 
little  Pole,  and  thought:  "But  he  must  know  I'm  not 
silly  enough  just  to  be  taken  in  by  vulgar  flattery  I" 
Too  sensitive  to  confide  in  anyone,  she  had  no 
chance  to  ventilate  the  curious  sensations  of  attrac- 
tion and  repulsion  that  began  fermenting  in  her, 
feelings  defying  analysis,  mingling  and  quarrelling 
deep  down  in  her  heart.  It  was  certainly  not  love, 
not  even  the  beginning  of  that;  but  it  was  the  kind 
of  dangerous  interest  children  feel  in  things  mys- 
terious, out  of  reach,  yet  within  reach,  if  only  they 
dared !  And  the  tug  of  music  was  there,  and  the 
tug  of  those  words  of  the  baroness  about  salvation 
— the  thought  of  achieving  the  impossible,  reserved 
only  for  the  woman  of  supreme  charm,  for  the  true 
victress.  But  all  these  thoughts  and  feelings  were 
as  yet  in  embryo.  She  might  never  see  him  again ! 
And  she  certainly  did  not  know  whether  she  even 
wanted  to. 


IV 

Gyp  was  in  the  habit  of  walking  with  Winton 
to  the  Kochbrunnen,  where,  with  other  patient-folk, 
he  was  required  to  drink  slowly  for  twenty  minutes 
every  morning.  While  he  was  imbibing  she  would 
sit  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  garden,  and  read  a 
novel  in  the  Reclam  edition,  as  a  daily  German 
lesson. 

She  was  sitting  there,  the  morning  after  the  "at- 
home"  at  the  Baroness  von  Maisen's,  reading  Tur- 
genev's  "Torrents  of  Spring,"  when  she  saw  Count 
Rosek  sauntering  down  the  path  with  a  glass  of  the 
waters  in  his  hand.  Instant  memory  of  the  smile 
with  which  he  had  introduced  Fiorsen  made  her  take 
cover  beneath  her  sunshade.  She  could  see  his 
patent-leathered  feet,  and  well-turned,  peg-top- 
trousered  legs  go  by  with  the  gait  of  a  man  whose 
waist  is  corseted.  The  certainty  that  he  wore 
those  prerogatives  of  womanhood  increased  her  dis- 
like. How  dare  men  be  so  effeminate  ?  Yet  some- 
one had  told  her  that  he  was  a  good  rider,  a  good 
fencer,  and  very  strong.  She  drew  a  breath  of  relief 
when  he  was  past,  and,  for  fear  he  might  turn  and 
come  back,  closed  her  little  book  and  slipped  away. 
But  her  figure  and  her  springing  step  were  more  un- 
mistakable than  she  knew. 

47 


48  BEYOND 

Next  morning,  on  the  same  bench,  she  was  reading 
breathlessly  the  scene  between  Gemma  and  Sanin 
at  the  window,  when  she  heard  Fiorsen's  voice,  be- 
hind her,  say: 

"MissWintonl" 

He,  too,  held  a  glass  of  the  waters  in  one  hand, 
and  his  hat  in  the  other. 

"I  have  just  made  your  father's  acquaintance. 
May  I  sit  down  a  minute?" 

Gyp  drew  to  one  side  on  the  bench,  and  he  sat 
down.. 

"What  are  you  reading?" 

"A  story  called  ' Torrents  of  Spring.'" 

"Ah,  the  finest  ever  written!    Where  are  you?" 

"Gemma  and  Sanin  in  the  thunderstorm." 

"Wait!  You  have  Madame  Polozov  to  come! 
What  a  creation !    How  old  are  you,  Miss  Winton  ?  " 

"Twenty-two." 

"You  would  be  too  young  to  appreciate  that  story 
if  you  were  not  you.  But  you  know  much — by  in- 
stinct.    What  is  your  Christian  name — forgive  me ! " 

"Ghita." 

"Ghita?    Not  soft  enough." 

"I  am  always  called  Gyp." 

"  Gyp— ah,  Gyp !    Yes;  Gyp ! " 

He  repeated  her  name  so  impersonally  that  she 
could  not  be  angry. 

"I  told  your  father  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you.     He  was  very  polite." 

Gyp  said  coldly: 

"My  father  is  always  polite." 


BEYOND  49 

"Like  the  ice  in  which  they  put  champagne." 

Gyp  smiled;  she  could  not  help  it. 

And  suddenly  he  said: 

"I  suppose  they  have  told  you  that  I  am  a  mau- 
vais  sujet."  Gyp  inclined  her  head.  He  looked  at 
her  steadily,  and  said:  "It  is  true.  But  I  could  be 
better — much." 

She  wanted  to  look  at  him,  but  could  not.  A 
queer  sort  of  exultation  had  seized  on  her.  This 
man  had  power;  yet  she  had  power  over  him.  If 
she  wished  she  could  make  him  her  slave,  her  dog, 
chain  him  to  her.  She  had  but  to  hold  out  her 
hand,  and  he  would  go  on  his  knees  to  kiss  it.  She 
had  but  to  say,  "Come,"  and  he  would  come  from 
wherever  he  might  be.  She  had  but  to  say,  "Be 
good,"  and  he  would  be  good.  It  was  her  first  ex- 
perience of  power;  and  it  wTas  intoxicating.  But — 
but!  Gyp  could  never  be  self-confident  for  long; 
over  her  most  victorious  moments  brooded  the 
shadow  of  distrust.  As  if  he  read  her  thought, 
Fiorsen  said: 

"Tell  me  to  do  something — anything;  I  will  do  it, 
Miss  Winton." 

"Then — go  back  to  London  at  once.  You  are 
wasting  yourself  here,  you  know.     You  said  so!" 

He  looked  at  her,  bewildered  and  upset,  and  mut- 
tered : 

"You  have  asked  me  the  one  thing  I  can't  do, 
Miss— Miss  Gyp!" 

"Please — not  that;  it's  like  a  servant!" 

"I  am  your  servant !" 


50  BEYOND 

"Is  that  why  you  won't  do  what  I  ask  you?" 

"You  are  cruel." 

Gyp  laughed. 

He  got  up  and  said,  with  sudden  fierceness: 

"I  am  not  going  away  from  you;  do  not  think  it." 
Bending  with  the  utmost  swiftness,  he  took  her 
hand,  put  his  lips  to  it,  and  turned  on  his  heel. 

Gyp,  uneasy  and  astonished,  stared  at  her  hand, 
still  tingling  from  the  pressure  of  his  bristly  mous- 
tache. Then  she  laughed  again — it  was  just  "for- 
eign" to  have  your  hand  kissed — and  went  back  to 
her  book,  without  taking  in  the  words. 

Was  ever  courtship  more  strange  than  that  which 
followed  ?  It  is  said  that  the  cat  fascinates  the  bird 
it  desires  to  eat;  here  the  bird  fascinated  the  cat,  but 
the  bird  too  was  fascinated.  Gyp  never  lost  the 
sense  of  having  the  whip-hand,  always  felt  like  one 
giving  alms,  or  extending  favour,  yet  had  a  ^feeling 
of  being  unable  to  get  away,  which  seemed  to  come 
from  the  very  strength  of  the  spell  she  laid  on  him. 
The  magnetism  with  which  she  held  him  reacted  on 
herself.  Thoroughly  sceptical  at  first,  she  could  not 
remain  so.  He  was  too  utterly  morose  and  unhappy 
if  she  did  not  smile  on  him,  too  alive  and  excited  and 
grateful  if  she  did.  The  change  in  his  eyes  from 
their  ordinary  restless,  fierce,  and  furtive  expression 
to  humble  adoration  or  wistful  hunger  when  they 
looked  at  her  could  never  have  been  simulated. 
And  she  had  no  lack  of  chance  to  see  that  metamor- 
phosis.   Wherever  she  went,  there  he  was.     If  to  a 


BEYOND  51 

concert,  he  would  be  a  few  paces  from  the  door, 
waiting  for  her  entrance.  If  to  a  confectioner's  for 
tea,  as  likely  as  not  he  would  come  in.  Every  after- 
noon he  walked  where  she  must  pass,  riding  to  the 
Neroberg. 

Except  in  the  gardens  of  the  Kochbrunnen,  when 
he  would  come  up  humbly  and  ask  to  sit  with  her 
five  minutes,  he  never  forced  his  company,  or 
tried  in  any  way  to  compromise  her.  Experience, 
no  doubt,  served  him  there;  but  he  must  have 
had  an  instinct  that  it  was  dangerous  with  one 
so  sensitive.  There  were  other  moths,  too,  round 
that  bright  candle,  and  they  served  to  keep  his  at- 
tentions from  being  too  conspicuous.  Did  she  com- 
prehend what  was  going  on,  understand  how  her 
defences  were  being  sapped,  grasp  the  danger  to 
retreat  that  lay  in  permitting  him  to  hover  round 
her?  Not  really.  It  all  served  to  swell  the  trium- 
phant intoxication  of  days  when  she  was  ever  more 
and  more  in  love  with  living,  more  and  more  con- 
scious that  the  world  appreciated  and  admired  her, 
that  she  had  power  to  do  what  others  couldn't. 

Was  not  Fiorsen,  with  his  great  talent,  and  his 
dubious  reputation,  proof  of  that?  And  he  excited 
her.  Whatever  else  one  might  be  in  his  moody, 
vivid  company,  one  would  not  be  dull.  One  morn- 
ing, he  told  her  something  of  his  life.  His  father 
had  been  a  small  Swedish  landowner,  a  very  strong 
man  and  a  very  hard  drinker;  his  mother,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  painter.  She  had  taught  him  the  violin, 
but  died  while  he  was  still  a  boy.    When  he  was 


52  BEYOND 

seventeen  he  had  quarrelled  with  his  father,  and 
had  to  play  his  violin  for  a  living  in  the  streets  of 
Stockholm.  A  well-known  violinist,  hearing  him 
one  day,  took  him  in  hand.  Then  his  father  had 
drunk  himself  to  death,  and  he  had  inherited  the 
little  estate.  He  had  sold  it  at  once — "for  follies," 
as  he  put  it  crudely.  "Yes,  Miss  Winton;  I  have 
committed  many  follies,  but  they  are  nothing  to 
those  I  shall  commit  the  day  I  do  not  see  you  any 
more!"  And,  with  that  disturbing  remark,  he  got 
up  and  left  her.  She  had  smiled  at  his  words,  but 
within  herself  she  felt  excitement,  scepticism,  com- 
passion, and  something  she  did  not  understand  at 
all.  In  those  days,  she  understood  herself  very 
little. 

But  how  far  did  Winton  understand,  how  far  see 
what  was  going  on?  He  was  a  stoic;  but  that  did 
not  prevent  jealousy  from  taking  alarm,  and  causing 
him  twinges  more  acute  than  those  he  still  felt  in 
his  left  foot.  He  was  afraid  of  showing  disquiet  by 
any  dramatic  change,  or  he  would  have  carried  her 
off  a  fortnight  at  least  before  his  cure  was  over. 
He  knew  too  well  the  signs  of  passion.  That  long, 
loping,  wolfish  fiddling  fellow  with  the  broad  cheek- 
bones and  little  side- whiskers  (Good  God !)  and 
greenish  eyes  whose  looks  at  Gyp  he  secretly  marked 
down,  roused  his  complete  distrust.  Perhaps  his 
inbred  English  contempt  for  foreigners  and  artists 
kept  him  from  direct  action.  He  could  not  take  it 
quite  seriously.  Gyp,  his  fastidious  perfect  Gyp, 
succumbing,  even   a  little   to  a  fellow  like   that! 


BEYOND  53 

Never !  His  jealous  affection,  too,  could  not  admit 
that  she  would  neglect  to  consult  him  in  any  doubt 
or  difficulty.  He  forgot  the  sensitive  secrecy  of 
girls,  forgot  that  his  love  for  her  had  ever  shunned 
words,  her  love  for  him  never  indulged  in  confi- 
dences. Nor  did  he  see  more  than  a  little  of  what 
there  was  to  see,  and  that  little  was  doctored  by 
Fiorsen  for  his  eyes,  shrewd  though  they  were.  Nor 
was  there  in  all  so  very  much,  except  one  episode 
the  day  before  they  left,  and  of  that  he  knew  nothing. 
That  last  afternoon  was  very  still,  a  little  mourn- 
ful. It  had  rained  the  night  before,  and  the  soaked 
tree-trunks,  the  soaked  fallen  leaves  gave  off  a  faint 
liquorice-like  perfume.  In  Gyp  there  was  a  feeling, 
as  if  her  spirit  had  been  suddenly  emptied  of  excite- 
ment and  delight.  Was  it  the  day,  or  the  thought 
of  leaving  this  place  where  she  had  so  enjoyed  her- 
self? After  lunch,  when  Win  ton  was  settling  his 
accounts,  she  wandered  out  through  the  long  park 
stretching  up  the  valley.  The  sky  was  brooding- 
grey,  the  trees  were  still  and  melancholy.  It  was 
all  a  little  melancholy,  and  she  went  on  and  on, 
across  the  stream,  round  into  a  muddy  lane  that  led 
up  through  the  outskirts  of  a  village,  on  to  the 
higher  ground  whence  she  could  return  by  the  main 
road.  Why  must  things  come  to  an  end?  For  the 
first  time  in  her  fife,  she  thought  of  Mildenham  and 
hunting  without  enthusiasm.  She  would  rather  stay 
in  London.  There  she  would  not  be  cut  off  from 
music,  from  dancing,  from  people,  and  all  the  exhil- 
aration of  being  appreciated.     On  the  air  came  the 


54  BEYOND 

shrilly,  hollow  droning  of  a  thresher,  and  the  sound 
seemed  exactly  to  express  her  feelings.  A  pigeon 
flew  over,  white  against  the  leaden  sky;  some  birch- 
trees  that  had  gone  golden  shivered  and  let  fall  a 
shower  of  drops.  It  was  lonely  here !  And,  sud- 
denly, two  little  boys  bolted  out  of  the  hedge,  nearly 
upsetting  her,  and  scurried  down  the  road.  Some- 
thing had  startled  them.  Gyp,  putting  up  her  face 
to  see,  felt  on  it  soft  pin-points  of  rain.  Her  frock 
would  be  spoiled,  and  it  was  one  she  was  fond  of — 
dove-coloured,  velvety,  not  meant  for  weather.  She 
turned  for  refuge  to  the  birch-trees.  It  would  be 
over  directly,  perhaps.  Muffled  in  distance,  the 
whining  drone  of  that  thresher  still  came  travelling, 
deepening  her  discomfort.  Then  in  the  hedge, 
whence  the  boys  had  bolted  down,  a  man  reared 
himself  above  the  lane,  and  came  striding  along  to- 
ward her.  He  jumped  down  the  bank,  among  the 
birch-trees.  And  she  saw  it  was  Fiorsen — panting, 
dishevelled,  pale  with  heat.  He  must  have  followed 
her,  and  climbed  straight  up  the  hillside  from  the 
path  she  had  come  along  in  the  bottom,  before  cross- 
ing the  stream.  His  artistic  dandyism  had  been 
harshly  treated  by  that  scramble.  She  might  have 
laughed;  but,  instead,  she  felt  excited,  a  little  scared 
by  the  look  on  his  hot,  pale  face.  He  said,  breath- 
lessly: 

"I  have  caught  you.  So  you  are  going  to-mor- 
row, and  never  told  me !  You  thought  you  would 
slip  away — not  a  word  for  me !  Are  you  always  so 
cruel?    Well,  I  will  not  spare  you,  either !" 


BEYOND  55 

Crouching  suddenly,  he  took  hold  of  her  broad 
ribbon  sash,  and  buried  his  face  in  it.  Gyp  stood 
trembling — the  action  had  not  stirred  her  sense  of 
the  ridiculous.     He  circled  her  knees  with  his  arms. 

"Oh,  Gyp,  I  love  you — I  love  you — don't  send 
me  away — let  me  be  with  you!  I  am  your  dog — 
your  slave.     Oh,  Gyp,  I  love  you !" 

His  voice  moved  and  terrified  her.  Men  had  said 
"I  love  you"  several  times  during  those  last  two 
years,  but  never  with  that  lost-soul  ring  of  passion, 
never  with  that  look  in  the  eyes  at  once  fiercely 
hungry  and  so  supplicating,  never  with  that  rest- 
less, eager,  timid  touch  of  hands.  She  could  only 
murmur: 

"Please  get  up!" 

But  he  went  on : 

"Love  me  a  little,  only  a  little — love  me!  Oh, 
Gyp!" 

The  thought  flashed  through  Gyp : '  To  how  many 
has  he  knelt,  I  wonder?'  His  face  had  a  kind  of 
beauty  in  its  abandonment — the  beauty  that  comes 
from  yearning — and  she  lost  her  frightened  feeling. 
He  went  on,  with  his  stammering  murmur:  "I  am  a 
prodigal,  I  know;  but  if  you  love  me,  I  will  no 
longer  be.  I  will  do  great  things  for  you.  Oh,  Gyp, 
if  you  will  some  day  marry  me !  Not  now.  When 
I  have  proved.  Oh,  Gyp,  you  are  so  sweet — so 
wonderful!" 

His  arms  crept  up  till  he  had  buried  his  face 
against  her  waist.  Without  quite  knowing  what 
she  did,  Gyp  touched  his  hair,  and  said  again: 


56  BEYOND 

"No;  please  get  up." 

He  got  up  then,  and  standing  near,  with  his  hands 
hard  clenched  at  his  sides,  whispered: 

"Have  mercy!    Speak  to  me!" 

She  could  not.  All  was  strange  and  mazed  and 
quivering  in  her,  her  spirit  straining  away,  drawn 
to  him,  fantastically  confused.  She  could  only  look 
into  his  face  with  her  troubled,  dark  eyes.  And 
suddenly  she  was  seized  and  crushed  to  him.  She 
shrank  away,  pushing  him  back  with  all  her  strength. 
He  hung  his  head,  abashed,  suffering,  with  eyes 
shut,  lips  trembling;  and  her  heart  felt  again  that 
quiver  of  compassion.     She  murmured: 

"I  don't  know.  I  will  tell  you  later — later — in 
England." 

He  bowed,  folding  his  arms,  as  if  to  make  her  feel 
safe  from  him.  And  when,  regardless  of  the  rain, 
she  began  to  move  on,  he  walked  beside  her,  a  yard 
or  so  away,  humbly,  as  though  he  had  never  poured 
out  those  words  or  hurt  her  lips  with  the  violence  of 
his  kiss. 

Back  in  her  room,  taking  off  her  wet  dress,  Gyp 
tried  to  remember  what  he  had  said  and  what  she 
had  answered.  She  had  not  promised  anything. 
But  she  had  given  him  her  address,  both  in  London 
and  the  country.  Unless  she  resolutely  thought  of 
other  things,  she  still  felt  the  restless  touch  of  his 
hands,  the  grip  of  his  arms,  and  saw  his  eyes  as  they 
were  when  he  was  kissing  her;  and  once  more  she 
felt  frightened  and  excited. 

He  was  playing  at  the  concert  that  evening — her 


BEYOND  57 

last  concert.  And  surely  he  had  never  played  like 
that — with  a  despairing  beauty,  a  sort  of  frenzied 
rapture.  Listening,  there  came  to  her  a  feeling — a 
feeling  of  fatality — that,  whether  she  would  or  no, 
she  could  not  free  herself  from  him. 


V 

Once  back  in  England,  Gyp  lost  that  feeling,  or 
very  nearly.  Her  scepticism  told  her  that  Fiorsen 
would  soon  see  someone  else  who  seemed  all  he  had 
said  she  was!  How  ridiculous  to  suppose  that  he 
would  stop  his  follies  for  her,  that  she  had  any  real 
power  over  him !  But,  deep  down,  she  did  not  quite 
believe  this.  It  would  have  wounded  her  belief  in 
herself  too  much — a  belief  so  subtle  and  intimate 
that  she  was  not  conscious  of  it;  belief  in  that  some- 
thing about  her  which  had  inspired  the  baroness  to 
use  the  word  "fatality." 

Winton,  who  breathed  again,  hurried  her  off  to 
Mildenham.  He  had  bought  her  a  new  horse. 
They  were  in  time  for  the  last  of  the  cubbing.  And, 
for  a  week  at  least,  the  passion  for  riding  and  the 
sight  of  hounds  carried  all  before  it.  Then,  just  as 
the  real  business  of  the  season  was  beginning,  she 
began  to  feel  dull  and  restless.  Mildenham  was 
dark;  the  autumn  winds  made  dreary  noises.  Her 
little  brown  spaniel,  very  old,  who  seemed  only  to 
have  held  on  to  life  just  for  her  return,  died.  She 
accused  herself  terribly  for  having  left  it  so  long 
when  it  was  failing.  Thinking  of  all  the  days  Lass 
had  been  watching  for  her  to  come  home — as  Betty, 
with  that  love  of  woeful  recital  so  dear  to  simple 
hearts,  took  good  care  to  make  plain — she  felt  as  if 

5S 


BEYOND  59 

she  had  been  cruel.  For  events  such  as  these,  Gyp 
was  both  too  tender-hearted  and  too  hard  on  herself. 
She  was  quite  ill  for  several  days.  The  moment 
she  was  better,  Winton,  in  dismay,  whisked  her 
back  to  Aunt  Rosamund,  in  town.  He  would  lose 
her  company,  but  if  it  did  her  good,  took  her  out  of 
herself,  he  would  be  content.  Running  up  for  the 
week-end,  three  days  later,  he  was  relieved  to  find 
her  decidedly  perked-up,  and  left  her  again  with  the 
easier  heart. 

It  was  on  the  day  after  he  went  back  to  Milden- 
ham  that  she  received  a  letter  from  Fiorsen,  for- 
warded from  Bury  Street.  He  was — it  said — just 
returning  to  London;  he  had  not  forgotten  any  look 
she  had  ever  given  him,  or  any  word  she  had  spoken. 
He  should  not  rest  till  he  could  see  her  again.  "For 
a  long  time,"  the  letter  ended,  "before  I  first  saw 
you,  I  was  like  the  dead — lost.  All  was  bitter  apples 
to  me.  Now  I  am  a  ship  that  comes  from  the  whirl- 
pools to  a  warm  blue  sea;  now  I  see  again  the  eve- 
ning star.  I  kiss  your  hands,  and  am  your  faithful 
slave — Gustav  Fiorsen."  These  words,  which  from 
any  other  man  would  have  excited  her  derision, 
renewed  in  Gyp  that  fluttered  feeling,  the  pleasur- 
able, frightened  sense  that  she  could  not  get  away 
from  his  pursuit. 

She  wrote  in  answer  to  the  address  he  gave  her  in 
London,  to  say  that  she  was  staying  for  a  few  days 
in  Curzon  Street  with  her  aunt,  who  would  be  glad 
to  see  him  if  he  cared  to  come  in  any  afternoon  be- 
tween five  and  six,  and  signed  herself  "Ghita  Win- 


60  BEYOND 

ton."  She  was  long  over  that  little  note.  Its  curt 
formality  gave  her  satisfaction.  Was  she  really 
mistress  of  herself — and  him;  able  to  dispose  as  she 
wished?     Yes;  and  surely  the  note  showed  it. 

It  was  never  easy  to  tell  Gyp's  feelings  from  her 
face;  even  Winton  was  often  baffled.  Her  prepara- 
tion of  Aunt  Rosamund  for  the  reception  of  Fiorsen 
was  a  masterpiece  of  casualness.  When  he  duly 
came,  he,  too,  seemed  doubly  alive  to  the  need  for 
caution,  only  gazing  at  Gyp  when  he  could  not  be 
seen  doing  so.  But,  going  out,  he  whispered:  "Not 
like  this — not  like  this;  I  must  see  you  alone — I 
must!"  She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  But 
bubbles  had  come  back  to  the  wine  in  her  cup. 

That  evening  she  said  quietly  to  Aunt  Rosamund: 

"Dad  doesn't  like  Mr.  Fiorsen — can't  appreciate 
his  playing,  of  course." 

And  this  most  discreet  remark  caused  Aunt  Rosa- 
mund, avid — in  a  well-bred  way — of  music,  to  omit 
mention  of  the  intruder  when  writing  to  her  brother. 
The  next  two  weeks  he  came  almost  every  day,  al- 
ways bringing  his  violin,  Gyp  playing  his  accom- 
paniments, and  though  his  hungry  stare  sometimes 
made  her  feel  hot,  she  would  have  missed  it. 

But  when  Winton  next  came  up  to  Bury  Street, 
she  was  in  a  quandary.  To  confess  that  Fiorsen 
was  here,  having  omitted  to  speak  of  him  in  her 
letters?  Not  to  confess,  and  leave  him  to  find  it 
out  from  Aunt  Rosamund?  Which  was  worse? 
Seized  with  panic,  she  did  neither,  but  told  her  father 
she  was  dying  for  a  gallop.     Hailing  that  as  the 


BEYOND  6 1 

best  of  signs,  he  took  her  forthwith  back  to  Milden- 
ham.  And  curious  were  her  feelings — light-hearted, 
compunctious,  as  of  one  who  escapes  yet  knows  she 
will  soon  be  seeking  to  return.  The  meet  was  rather 
far  next  day,  but  she  insisted  on  riding  to  it,  since 
old  Pettance,  the  superannuated  jockey,  charitably 
employed  as  extra  stable  help  at  Mildenham,  was 
to  bring  on  her  second  horse.  There  was  a  good 
scenting-wind,  with  rain  in  the  offing,  and  outside 
the  covert  they  had  a  corner  to  themselves — Win- 
ton  knowing  a  trick  worth  two  of  the  field's  at-large. 
They  had  slipped  there,  luckily  unseen,  for  the  know- 
ing were  given  to  following  the  one-handed  horse- 
man in  faded  pink,  who,  on  his  bang-tailed  black 
mare,  had  a  knack  of  getting  so  well  away.  One 
of  the  whips,  a  little  dark  fellow  with  smouldery 
eyes  and  sucked-in  weathered  cheeks,  dashed  out 
of  covert,  rode  past,  saluting,  and  dashed  in  again. 
A  jay  came  out  with  a  screech,  dived,  and  doubled 
back;  a  hare  made  off  across  the  fallow — the  light- 
brown  lopping  creature  was  barely  visible  against 
the  brownish  soil.  Pigeons,  very  high  up,  flew  over 
and  away  to  the  next  wood.  The  shrilling  voices 
of  the  whips  rose  from  the  covert-depths,  and  just 
a  whimper  now  and  then  from  the  hounds,  swiftly 
wheeling  their  noses  among  the  fern  and  briers. 

Gyp,  crisping  her  fingers  on  the  reins,  drew-in 
deep  breaths.  It  smelled  so  sweet  and  soft  and 
fresh  under  that  sky,  pied  of  blue,  and  of  white  and 
light-grey  swift-moving  clouds — not  half  the  wind 
down  here  that  there  was  up  there,  just  enough  to 


62  BEYOND 

be  carrying  off  the  beech  and  oak  leaves,  loosened 
by  frost  two  days  before.  If  only  a  fox  would  break 
this  side,  and  they  could  have  the  first  fields  to 
themselves !  It  was  so  lovely  to  be  alone  with 
hounds !  One  of  these  came  trotting  out,  a  pretty 
young  creature,  busy  and  unconcerned,  raising  its 
tan-and-white  head,  its  mild  reproachful  deep-brown 
eyes,  at  Winton's,  "  Loo-in  Trix ! "  What  a  darling ! 
A  burst  of  music  from  the  covert,  and  the  darling 
vanished  among  the  briers. 

Gyp's  new  brown  horse  pricked  its  ears.  A  young 
man  in  a  grey  cutaway,  buff  cords,  and  jack-boots, 
on  a  low  chestnut  mare,  came  slipping  round  the 
covert.  Oh — did  that  mean  they  were  all  coming? 
Impatiently  she  glanced  at  this  intruder,  who  raised 
his  hat  a  little  and  smiled.  That  smile,  faintly  im- 
pudent, was  so  infectious,  that  Gyp  was  melted  to  a 
slight  response.  Then  she  frowned.  He  had  spoiled 
their  lovely  loneliness.  Who  was  he?  He  looked 
unpardonably  serene  and  happy  sitting  there.  She 
did  not  remember  his  face  at  all,  yet  there  was 
something  familiar  about  it.  He  had  taken  his  hat 
off — a  broad  face,  very  well  cut,  and  clean-shaved, 
with  dark  curly  hair,  extraordinary  clear  eyes,  a 
bold,  cool,  merry  look.  Where  had  she  seen  some- 
body like  him? 

A  tiny  sound  from  Winton  made  her  turn  her 
head.  The  fox — stealing  out  beyond  those  further 
bushes!  Breathless,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  her 
father's  face.  It  was  hard  as  steel,  watching.  Not 
a  sound,  not  a  quiver,  as  if  horse  and  man  had 


BEYOND  63 

turned  to  metal.  Was  he  never  going  to  give  the 
view-halloo?  Then  his  lips  writhed,  and  out  it 
came.  Gyp  cast  a  swift  smile  of  gratitude  at  the 
young  man  for  having  had  taste  and  sense  to  leave 
that  to  her  father,  and  again  he  smiled  at  her.  There 
were  the  first  hounds  streaming  out — one  on  the 
other — music  and  feather!  Why  didn't  Dad  go? 
They  would  all  be  round  this  way  in  a  minute ! 

Then  the  black  mare  slid  past  her,  and,  with  a 
bound,  her  horse  followed.  The  young  man  on 
the  chestnut  was  away  on  the  left.  Only  the  hunts- 
man and  one  whip — beside  their  three  selves ! 
Glorious!  The  brown  horse  went  too  fast  at  that 
first  fence  and  Winton  called  back:  "Steady,  Gyp ! 
Steady  him!"  But  she  couldn't;  and  it  didn't 
matter.  Grass,  three  fields  of  grass !  Oh,  what  a 
lovely  fox — going  so  straight!  And  each  time  the 
brown  horse  rose,  she  thought:  "Perfect!  I  can 
ride !  Oh,  I  am  happy !"  And  she  hoped  her  father 
and  the  young  man  were  looking.  There  was  no 
feeling  in  the  world  like  this,  with  a  leader  like 
Dad,  hounds  moving  free,  good  going,  and  the 
field  distanced.  Better  than  dancing;  better — 
yes,  better  than  listening  to  music.  If  one  could 
spend  one's  life  galloping,  sailing  over  fences;  if 
it  would  never  stop !  The  new  horse  was  a  darling, 
though  he  did  pull. 

She  crossed  the  next  fence  level  with  the  young 
man,  whose  low  chestnut  mare  moved  with  a 
stealthy  action.  His  hat  was  crammed  down  now, 
and  his  face  very  determined,  but  his  lips  still  had 


64  BEYOND 

something  of  that  smile.  Gyp  thought:  "He's 
got  a  good  seat — very  strong,  only  he  looks  like 
'thrusting.'  Nobody  rides  like  Dad — so  beauti- 
fully quiet!"  Indeed,  Winton's  seat  on  a  horse 
was  perfection,  all  done  with  such  a  minimum  ex- 
penditure. The  hounds  swung  round  in  a  curve. 
Now  she  was  with  them,  really  with  them !  What 
a  pace — cracking !    No  fox  could  stand  this  long ! 

And  suddenly  she  caught  sight  of  him,  barely 
a  field  ahead,  scurrying  desperately,  brush  down; 
and  the  thought  flashed  through  her:  'Oh!  don't 
let's  catch  you.  Go  on,  fox;  go  on!  Get  away!' 
Were  they  really  all  after  that  little  hunted  red 
thing — a  hundred  great  creatures,  horses  and  men 
and  women  and  dogs,  and  only  that  one  little  fox ! 
But  then  came  another  fence,  and  quickly  another, 
and  she  lost  feelings  of  shame  and  pity  in  the  exul- 
tation of  flying  over  them.  A  minute  later  the  fox 
went  to  earth  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the 
leading  hound,  and  she  was  glad.  She  had  been 
in  at  deaths  before — horrid !  But  it  had  been  a 
lovely  gallop.  And,  breathless,  smiling  rapturously, 
she  wondered  whether  she  could  mop  her  face  be- 
fore the  field  came  up,  without  that  young  man 
noticing. 

She  could  see  him  talking  to  her  father,  and  tak- 
ing out  a  wisp  of  a  handkerchief  that  smelled  of 
cyclamen,  she  had  a  good  scrub  round.  When  she 
rode  up,  the  young  man  raised  his  hat,  and  look- 
ing full  at  her  said:  "You  did  go!"  His  voice, 
rather  high-pitched,  had  in  it  a  spice  of  pleasant 


BEYOND  65 

laziness.  Gyp  made  him  an  ironical  little  bow, 
and  murmured:  "My  new  horse,  you  mean."  He 
broke  again  into  that  irrepressible  smile,  but,  all 
the  same,  she  knew  that  he  admired  her.  And  she 
kept  thinking:  'Where  have  I  seen  someone  like 
him?' 

They  had  two  more  runs,  but  nothing  like  that 
first  gallop.  Nor  did  she  again  see  the  young  man, 
whose  name— it  seemed — was  Summerhay,  son  of 
a  certain  Lady  Summerhay  at  Widrington,  ten 
miles  from  Mildenham. 

All  that  long,  silent  jog  home  with  Winton  in 
fading  daylight,  she  felt  very  happy — saturated 
with  air  and  elation.  The  trees  and  fields,  the 
hay-stacks,  gates,  and  ponds  beside  the  lanes  grew 
dim;  lights  came  up  in  the  cottage  windows;  the 
air  smelled  sweet  of  wood  smoke.  And,  for  the 
first  time  all  day,  she  thought  of  Fiorsen,  thought 
of  him  almost  longingly.  If  he  could  be  there  in 
the  cosy  old  drawing-room,  to  play  to  her  while 
she  lay  back — drowsing,  dreaming  by  the  fire  in 
the  scent  of  burning  cedar  logs — the  Mozart  minuet, 
or  that  little  heart-catching  tune  of  Poise,  played 
the  first  time  she  heard  him,  or  a  dozen  other  of 
the  things  he  played  unaccompanied !  That  would 
be  the  most  lovely  ending  to  this  lovely  day.  Just 
the  glow  and  warmth  wanting,  to  make  all  perfect 
— the  glow  and  warmth  of  music  and  adoration ! 

And  touching  the  mare  with  her  heel,  she  sighed. 
To  indulge  fancies  about  music  and  Fiorsen  was 
safe  here,  far  away  from  him;    she  even  thought 


66  BEYOND 

she  would  not  mind  if  he  were  to  behave  again  as 
he  had  under  the  birch-trees  in  the  rain  at  Wies- 
baden. It  was  so  good  to  be  adored.  Her  old  mare, 
ridden  now  six  years,  began  the  series  of  con- 
tented snuffles  that  signified  she  smelt  home.  Here 
was  the  last  turn,  and  the  loom  of  the  short  beech- 
tree  avenue  to  the  house — the  old  manor-house, 
comfortable,  roomy,  rather  dark,  with  wide  shallow 
stairs.  Ah,  she  was  tired;  and  it  was  drizzling 
now.  She  would  be  nicely  stiff  to-morrow.  In  the 
light  coming  from  the  open  door  she  saw  Markey 
standing;  and  while  fishing  from  her  pocket  the 
usual  lumps  of  sugar,  heard  him  say:  "Mr.  Fiorsen, 
sir — gentleman  from  Wiesbaden — to  see  you." 

Her  heart  thumped.  What  did  this  mean?  Why 
had  he  come?  How  had  he  dared?  How  could 
he  have  been  so  treacherous  to  her?  Ah,  but  he 
was  ignorant,  of  course,  that  she  had  not  told  her 
father.  A  veritable  judgment  on  her!  She  ran 
straight  in  and  up  the  stairs.  The  voice  of  Betty, 
"Your  bath's  ready,  Miss  Gyp,"  roused  her.  And 
crying,  "Oh,  Betty  darling,  bring  me  up  my  tea!" 
she  ran  into  the  bathroom.  She  was  safe  there; 
and  in  the  delicious  heat  of  the  bath  faced  the 
situation  better. 

There  could  be  only  one  meaning.  He  had  come 
to  ask  for  her.  And,  suddenly,  she  took  comfort. 
Better  so;  there  would  be  no  more  secrecy  from 
Dad !  And  he  would  stand  between  her  and  Fiorsen 
if — if  she  decided  not  to  marry  him.  The  thought 
staggered  her.     Had  she,  without  knowing  it,  got 


BEYOND  67 

so  far  as  this?  Yes,  and  further.  It  was  all  no 
good;  Fiorsen  would  never  accept  refusal,  even  if 
she  gave  it!    But,  did  she  want  to  refuse? 

She  loved  hot  baths,  but  had  never  stayed  in  one 
so  long.  Life  was  so  easy  there,  and  so  difficult  out- 
side. Betty's  knock  forced  her  to  get  out  at  last, 
and  let  her  in  with  tea  and  the  message.  Would 
Miss  Gyp  please  to  go  down  when  she  was  ready? 


VI 

Winton  was  staggered.  With  a  glance  at  Gyp's 
vanishing  figure,  he  said  curtly  to  Markey,  "Where 
have  you  put  this  gentleman?"  But  the  use  of 
the  word  "this"  was  the  only  trace  he  showed  of 
his  emotions.  In  that  little  journey  across  the  hall 
he  entertained  many  extravagant  thoughts.  Ar- 
rived at  the  study,  he  inclined  his  head  courte- 
ously enough,  waiting  for  Fiorsen  to  speak.  The 
"fiddler,"  still  in  his  fur-lined  coat,  was  twisting 
a  squash  hat  in  his  hands.  In  his  own  peculiar 
style  he  was  impressive.  But  why  couldn't  he 
look  you  in  the  face;  or,  if  he  did,  why  did  he  seem 
about  to  eat  you? 

"You  knew  I  was  returned  to  London,  Major 
Winton?" 

Then  Gyp  had  been  seeing  the  fellow  without 
letting  him  know!  The  thought  was  chill  and 
bitter  to  Winton.  He  must  not  give  her  away, 
however,  and  he  simply  bowed.  He  felt  that  his 
visitor  was  afraid  of  his  frigid  courtesy;  and  he 
did  not  mean  to  help  him  over  that  fear.  He  could 
not,  of  course,  realize  that  this  ascendancy  would 
not  prevent  Fiorsen  from  laughing  at  him  behind 
his  back  and  acting  as  if  he  did  not  exist.  No  real 
contest,  in  fact,  was  possible  between  men  moving 
on  such  different  planes,  neither  having  the  slightest 
respect  for  the  other's  standards  or  beliefs. 

68 


BEYOND  69 

Fiorsen,  who  had  begun  to  pace  the  room, 
stopped,  and  said  with  agitation: 

"Major  Winton,  your  daughter  is  the  most  beau- 
tiful thing  on  earth.  I  love  her  desperately.  I  am 
a  man  with  a  future,  though  you  may  not  think 
it.  I  have  what  future  I  like  in  my  art  if  only  I 
can  marry  her.  I  have  a  little  money,  too — not 
much;  but  in  my  violin  there  is  all  the  fortune  she 
can  want." 

Winton's  face  expressed  nothing  but  cold  con- 
tempt. That  this  fellow  should  take  him  for  one 
who  would  consider  money  in  connection  with  his 
daughter  simply  affronted  him. 

Fiorsen  went  on: 

"You  do  not  like  me — that  is  clear.  I  saw  it 
the  first  moment.  You  are  an  English  gentle- 
man"— he  pronounced  the  words  with  a  sort  of 
irony — "I  am  nothing  to  you.  Yet,  in  my  world, 
I  am  something.  I  am  not  an  adventurer.  Will 
you  permit  me  to  beg  your  daughter  to  be  my 
wife  ?  "  He  raised  his  hands  that  still  held  the  hat;  in- 
voluntarily they  had  assumed  the  attitude  of  prayer. 

For  a  second,  Winton  realized  that  he  was  suf- 
fering. That  weakness  went  in  a  flash,  and  he 
said  frigidly: 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  coming  to  me  first. 
You  are  in  my  house,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  dis- 
courteous, but  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  be 
good  enough  to  withdraw  and  take  it  that  I  shall 
certainly  oppose  your  wish  as  best  I  can." 

The  almost  childish  disappointment  and  trouble 


70  BEYOND 

in  Fiorsen's  face  changed  quickly  to  an  expression 
fierce,  furtive,  mocking;  and  then  shifted  to  despair. 

"Major  Winton,  you  have  loved;  you  must  have 
loved  her  mother.    I  suffer!" 

Winton,  who  had  turned  abruptly  to  the  fire, 
faced  round  again. 

"I  don't  control  my  daughter's  affections,  sir;  she 
will  do  as  she  wishes.  I  merely  say  it  will  be  against 
my  hopes  and  judgment  if  she  marries  you.  I  im- 
agine you've  not  altogether  waited  for  my  leave. 
I  was  not  blind  to  the  way  you  hung  about  her  at 
Wiesbaden,  Mr.  Fiorsen." 

Fiorsen  answered  with  a  twisted,  miserable  smile: 

"Poor  wretches  do  what  they  can.  May  I  see 
her?    Let  me  just  see  her." 

Was  it  any  good  to  refuse?  She  had  been  see- 
ing the  fellow  already  without  his  knowledge,  keep- 
ing from  him — him — all  her  feelings,  whatever  they 
were.    And  he  said: 

"I'll  send  for  her.  In  the  meantime,  perhaps 
you'll  have  some  refreshment?" 

Fiorsen  shook  his  head,  and  there  followed  half 
an  hour  of  acute  discomfort.  Winton,  in  his  mud- 
stained  clothes  before  the  fire,  supported  it  better 
than  his  visitor.  That  child  of  nature,  after  en- 
deavouring to  emulate  his  host's  quietude,  renounced 
all  such  efforts  with  an  expressive  gesture,  fidgeted 
here,  fidgeted  there,  tramped  the  room,  went  to 
the  window,  drew  aside  the  curtains  and  stared 
out  into  the  dark;  came  back  as  if  resolved  again 
to  confront  Winton;    then,  baffled  by  that  figure 


BEYOND  71 

so  motionless  before  the  fire,  flung  himself  down  in 
an  armchair,  and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  Win- 
ton  was  not  cruel  by  nature,  but  he  enjoyed  the 
wri things  of  this  fellow  who  was  endangering  Gyp's 
happiness.  Endangering  ?  Surely  not  possible  that 
she  would  accept  him!  Yet,  if  not,  why  had  she 
not  told  him?    And  he,  too,  suffered. 

Then  she  came.  He  had  expected  her  to  be  pale 
and  nervous;  but  Gyp  never  admitted  being  naughty 
till  she  had  been  forgiven.  Her  smiling  face  had  in 
it  a  kind  of  warning  closeness.  She  went  up  to 
Fiorsen,  and  holding  out  her  hand,  said  calmly: 

"How  nice  of  you  to  come!" 

Winton  had  the  bitter  feeling  that  he — he — was 
the  outsider.  Well,  he  would  speak  plainly;  there 
had  been  too  much  underhand  doing. 

"Mr.  Fiorsen  has  done  us  the  honour  to  wish  to 
marry  you.  I've  told  him  that  you  decide  such 
things  for  yourself.  If  you  accept  him,  it  will  be 
against  my  wish,  naturally." 

While  he  was  speaking,  the  glow  in  her  cheeks 
deepened;  she  looked  neither  at  him  nor  at  Fior- 
sen. Winton  noted  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  lace  on 
her  breast.  She  was  smiling,  and  gave  the  tiniest 
shrug  of  her  shoulders.  And,  suddenly  smitten  to 
the  heart,  he  walked  stiffly  to  the  door.  It  was 
evident  that  she  had  no  use  for  his  guidance.  If 
her  love  for  him  was  not  worth  to  her  more  than 
this  fellow!  But  there  his  resentment  stopped. 
He  knew  that  he  could  not  afford  wounded  feelings; 
could   not   get   on   without   her.     Married   to   the 


72  BEYOND 

greatest  rascal  on  earth,  he  would  still  be  standing 
by  her,  wanting  her  companionship  and  love.  She 
represented  too  much  in  the  present  and — the  past. 
With  sore  heart,  indeed,  he  went  down  to  dinner. 

Fiorsen  was  gone  when  he  came  down  again. 
What  the  fellow  had  said,  or  she  had  answered,  he 
would  not  for  the  world  have  asked.  Gulfs  be- 
tween the  proud  are  not  lightly  bridged.  And 
when  she  _  came  up  to  say  good-night,  both  their 
faces  were  as  though  coated  with  wax. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  she  gave  no  sign,  ut- 
tered no  word  in  any  way  suggesting  that  she  meant 
to  go  against  his  wishes.  Fiorsen  might  not  have 
existed,  for  any  mention  made  of  him.  But  Win- 
ton  knew  well  that  she  was  moping,  and  cherishing 
some  feeling  against  himself.  And  this  he  could 
not  bear.  So,  one  evening,  after  dinner,  he  said 
quietly : 

"Tell  me  frankly,  Gyp;  do  you  care  for  that 
chap?" 

She  answered  as  quietly: 

"In  a  way — yes." 

"Is  that  enough?" 

"I  don't  know,  Dad." 

Her  lips  had  quivered;  and  Winton's  heart  soft- 
ened, as  it  always  did  when  he  saw  her  moved. 
He  put  his  hand  out,  covered  one  of  hers,  and  said : 

"I  shall  never  stand  in  the  way  of  your  hap- 
piness, Gyp.  But  it  must  be  happiness.  Can  it 
possibly  be  that?  I  don't  think  so.  You  know 
what  they  said  of  him  out  there?" 


BEYOND  73 

"Yes." 

He  had  not  thought  she  knew.  And  his  heart 
sank. 

"That's  pretty  bad,  you  know.  And  is  he  of 
our  world  at  all?" 

Gyp  looked  up. 

"Do  you  think  I  belong  to  'our  world,'  Dad?" 

Winton  turned  away.  She  followed,  slipping  her 
hand  under  his  arm. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt.  But  it's  true,  isn't  it? 
I  don't  belong  among  society  people.  They  wouldn't 
have  me,  you  know — if  they  knew  about  what  you 
told  me.  Ever  since  that  I've  felt  I  don't  belong 
to  them.  I'm  nearer  him.  Music  means  more  to 
me  than  anything!" 

Winton  gave  her  hand  a  convulsive  grip.  A  sense 
of  coming  defeat  and  bereavement  was  on  him. 

"If  your  happiness  went  wrong,  Gyp,  I  should 
be  most  awfully  cut  up." 

"But  why  shouldn't  I  be  happy,  Dad?" 

"If  you  were,  I  could  put  up  with  anyone.  But, 
I  tell  you,  I  can't  believe  you  would  be.  I  beg 
you,  my  dear — for  God's  sake,  make  sure.  I'll 
put  a  bullet  into  the  man  who  treats  you  badly." 

Gyp  laughed,  then  kissed  him.  But  they  were 
silent.    At  bedtime  he  said: 

"We'll  go  up  to  town  to-morrow." 

Whether  from  a  feeling  of  the  inevitable,  or 
from  the  forlorn  hope  that  seeing  more  of  the  fel- 
low might  be  the  only  chance  of  curing  her — he 
put  no  more  obstacles  in  the  way. 


74  BEYOND 

And  the  queer  courtship  began  again.  By  Christ- 
mas she  had  consented,  still  under  the  impression 
that  she  was  the  mistress,  not  the  slave — the  cat, 
not  the  bird.  Once  or  twice,  when  Fiorsen  let  pas- 
sion out  of  hand  and  his  overbold  caresses  affronted 
her,  she  recoiled  almost  with  dread  from  what  she 
was  going  toward.  But,  in  general,  she  lived 
elated,  intoxicated  by  music  and  his  adoration, 
withal  remorseful  that  she  was  making  her  father 
sad.  She  was  but  little  at  Mildenham,  and  he,  in 
his  unhappiness,  was  there  nearly  all  the  time, 
riding  extra  hard,  and  leaving  Gyp  with  his  sister. 
Aunt  Rosamund,  though  under  the  spell  of  Fiorsen's 
music,  had  agreed  with  her  brother  that  Fiorsen 
was  "impossible."  But  nothing  she  said  made  any 
effect  on  Gyp.  It  was  new  and  startling  to  dis- 
cover in  this  soft,  sensitive  girl  such  a  vein  of  stub- 
bornness. Opposition  seemed  to  harden  her  resolu- 
tion. And  the  good  lady's  natural  optimism  began 
to  persuade  her  that  Gyp  would  make  a  silk  purse 
out  of  that  sow's  ear  yet.  After  all,  the  man  was 
a  celebrity  in  his  way ! 

It  was  settled  for  February.  A  house  with  a 
garden  was  taken  in  St.  John's  Wood.  The  last 
month  went,  as  all  such  last  months  go,  in  those 
intoxicating  pastimes,  the  buying  of  furniture  and 
clothes.  If  it  were  not  for  that,  who  knows  how 
many  engagement  knots  would  slip  ! 

And  to-day  they  had  been  married.  To  the 
last,  Winton  had  hardly  believed  it  would  come  to 


BEYOND  75 

that.  He  had  shaken  the  hand  of  her  husband  and 
kept  pain  and  disappointment  out  of  his  face,  know- 
ing well  that  he  deceived  no  one.  Thank  heaven, 
there  had  been  no  church,  no  wedding-cake,  invi- 
tations, congratulations,  fal-lals  of  any  kind — he 
could  never  have  stood  them.  Not  even  Rosamund 
— who  had  influenza — to  put  up  with ! 

Lying  back  in  the  recesses  of  that  old  chair,  he 
stared  into  the  fire. 

They  would  be  just  about  at  Torquay  by  now — 
just  about.  Music !  Who  would  have  thought 
noises  made  out  of  string  and  wood  could  have 
stolen  her  away  from  him?  Yes,  they  would  be 
at  Torquay  by  now,  at  their  hotel.  And  the  first 
prayer  Winton  had  uttered  for  years  escaped  his 
lips: 

"Let  her  be  happy!    Let  her  be  happy!" 

Then,  hearing  Markey  open  the  door,  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  feigned  sleep. 


PART   II 


When  a  girl  first  sits  opposite  the  man  she  has 
married,  of  what  does  she  think  ?  Not  of  the  issues 
and  emotions  that  He  in  wait.  They  are  too  over- 
whelming; she  would  avoid  them  while  she  can. 
Gyp  thought  of  her  frock,  a  mushroom-coloured 
velvet  cord.  Not  many  girls  of  her  class  are  mar- 
ried without  "fal-lals,"  as  Winton  had  called  them. 
Not  many  girls  sit  in  the  corner  of  their  reserved 
first-class  compartments  without  the  excitement  of 
having  been  supreme  centre  of  the  world  for  some 
flattering  hours  to  buoy  them  up  on  that  train 
journey,  with  no  memories  of  friends'  behaviour, 
speech,  appearance,  to  chat  of  with  her  husband, 
so  as  to  keep  thought  away.  For  Gyp,  her  dress, 
first  worn  that  day,  Betty's  breakdown-,  the  faces, 
blank  as  hats,  of  the  registrar  and  clerk,  were  about 
all  she  had  to  distract  her.  She  stole  a  look  at  her 
husband,  clothed  in  blue  serge,  just  opposite.  Her 
husband !  Mrs.  Gustav  Fiorsen !  No !  People 
might  call  her  that;  to  herself,  she  was  Ghita  Win- 
ton.  Ghita  Fiorsen  would  never  seem  right.  And, 
not  confessing  that  she  was  afraid  to  meet  his  eyes, 
but  afraid  all  the  same,  she  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow. A  dull,  bleak,  dismal  day;  no  warmth,  no 
sun,  no  music  in  it — the  Thames  as  grey  as  lead, 
the  willows  on  its  banks  forlorn. 

79 


80  BEYOND 

Suddenly  she  felt  his  hand  on  hers.  She  had  not 
seen  his  face  like  that  before — yes;  once  or  twice 
when  he  was  playing — a  spirit  shining  through. 
She  felt  suddenly  secure.  If  it  stayed  like  that, 
then ! — His  hand  rested  on  her  knee;  his  face 
changed  just  a  little;  the  spirit  seemed  to  waver, 
to  be  fading;  his  lips  grew  fuller.  He  crossed  over 
and  sat  beside  her.  Instantly  she  began  to  talk 
about  their  house,  where  they  were  going  to  put 
certain  things — presents  and  all  that.  He,  too, 
talked  of  the  house;  but  every  now  and  then  he 
glanced  at  the  corridor,  and  muttered.  It  was 
pleasant  to  feel  that  the  thought  of  her  possessed 
him  through  and  through,  but  she  was  tremulously 
glad  of  that  corridor.  Life  is  mercifully  made  up 
of  little  things !  And  Gyp  was  always  able  to  live 
in  the  moment.  In  the  hours  they  had  spent  to- 
gether, up  to  now,  he  had  been  like  a  starved  man 
snatching  hasty  meals;  now  that  he  had  her  to 
himself  for  good,  he  was  another  creature  alto- 
gether— like  a  boy  out  of  school,  and  kept  her 
laughing  nearly  all  the  time. 

Presently  he  got  down  his  practise  violin,  and 
putting  on  the  mute,  played,  looking  at  her  over 
his  shoulder  with  a  droll  smile.  She  felt  happy, 
much  warmer  at  heart,  now.  And  when  his  face 
was  turned  away,  she  looked  at  him.  He  was  so 
much  better  looking  now  than  when  he  had  those 
little  whiskers.  One  day  she  had  touched  one  of 
them  and  said:  "  Ah !  if  only  these  wings  could  fly !" 
Next  morning  they  had  flown.     His  face  was  not 


BEYOND  8 1 

one  to  be  easily  got  used  to;  she  was  not  used  to 
it  yet,  any  more  than  she  was  used  to  his  touch. 
When  it  grew  dark,  and  he  wanted  to  draw  down 
the  blinds,  she  caught  him  by  the  sleeve,  and  said: 

"No,  no;   they'll  know  we're  honeymooners ! " 

"Well,  my  Gyp,  and  are  we  not?" 

But  he  obeyed;  only,  as  the  hours  went  on,  his 
eyes  seemed  never  to  let  her  alone. 

At  Torquay,  the  sky  was  clear  and  starry;  the 
wind  brought  whiffs  of  sea-scent  into  their  cab; 
lights  winked  far  out  on  a  headland;  and  in  the 
little  harbour,  all  bluish  dark,  many  little  boats 
floated  like  tame  birds.  He  had  put  his  arm  round 
her,  and  she  could  feel  his  hand  resting  on  her  heart. 
She  was  grateful  that  he  kept  so  still.  When  the 
cab  stopped  and  they  entered  the  hall  of  the  hotel, 
she  whispered: 

"Don't  let's  let  them  see!" 

Still,  mercifully,  little  things !  Inspecting  the 
three  rooms,  getting  the  luggage  divided  between 
dressing-room  and  bedroom,  unpacking,  wonder- 
ing which  dress  to  put  on  for  dinner,  stopping  to 
look  out  over  the  dark  rocks  and  the  sea,  where 
the  moon  was  coming  up,  wondering  if  she  dared 
lock  the  door  while  she  was  dressing,  deciding  that 
it  would  be  silly;  dressing  so  quickly,  fluttering 
when  she  found  him  suddenly  there  close  behind 
her,  beginning  to  do  up  her  hooks.  Those  fingers 
were  too  skilful!  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
thought  of  his  past  with  a  sort  of  hurt  pride  and 
fastidiousness.     When  he  had  finished,  he  twisted 


82  BEYOND 

her  round,  held  her  away,  looked  at  her  from  head 
to  foot,  and  said  below  his  breath: 

"Mine!" 

Her  heart  beat  fast  then;  but  suddenly  he 
laughed,  slipped  his  arm  about  her,  and  danced 
her  twice  round  the  room.  He  let  her  go  demurely 
down  the  stairs  in  front  of  him,  saying: 

"They  shan't  see — my  Gyp.  Oh,  they  shan't 
see!  We  are  old  married  people,  tired  of  each 
other — very!" 

At  dinner  it  amused  him  at  first — her  too,  a 
little — to  keep  up  this  farce  of  indifference.  But 
every  now  and  then  he  turned  and  stared  at  some 
inoffensive  visitor  who  was  taking  interest  in  them, 
with  such  fierce  and  genuine  contempt  that  Gyp 
took  alarm;  whereon  he  laughed.  When  she  had 
drunk  a  little  wine  and  he  had  drunk  a  good  deal, 
the  farce  of  indifference  came  to  its  end.  He  talked 
at  a  great  rate  now,  slying  nicknaming  the  waiters 
and  mimicking  the  people  around — happy  thrusts 
that  made  her  smile  but  shiver  a  little,  lest  they 
should  be  heard  or  seen.  Their  heads  were  close 
together  across  the  little  table.  They  went  out 
into  the  lounge.  Coffee  came,  and  he  wanted  her 
to  smoke  with  him.  She  had  never  smoked  in  a 
public  room.  But  it  seemed  stiff  and  "missish"  to 
refuse — she  must  do  now  as  his  world  did.  And  it 
was  another  little  thing;  she  wanted  little  things, 
all  the  time  wanted  them.  She  drew  back  a  window- 
curtain,  and  they  stood  there  side  by  side.  The 
sea  was  deep  blue  beneath  bright  stars,  and  the 


BEYOND  83 

moon  shone  through  a  ragged  pine-tree  on  a  little 
headland.  Though  she  stood  five  feet  six  in  her 
shoes,  she  was  only  up  to  his  mouth.  He  sighed  and 
said:  "Beautiful  night,  my  Gyp!"  And  suddenly 
it  struck  her  that  she  knew  nothing  of  what  was  in 
him,  and  yet  he  was  her  husband  I  "Husband" — 
funny  word,  not  pretty  !  She  felt  as  a  child  opening 
the  door  of  a  dark  room,  and,  clutching  his  arm, 
said: 

"Look!  There's  a  sailing-boat.  What's  it  doing 
out  there  at  night?"  Another  little  thing!  Any 
little  thing ! 

Presently  he  said: 

"  Come  up-stairs !    I'll  play  to  you." 

Up  in  their  sitting-room  was  a  piano,  but — not 
possible;  to-morrow  they  would  have  to  get  an- 
other. To-morrow!  The  fire  was  hot,  and  he 
took  off  his  coat  to  play.  In  one  of  his  shirt-sleeves 
there  was  a  rent.  She  thought,  with  a  sort  of  tri- 
umph: 'I  shall  mend  that!'  It  was  something 
definite,  actual — a  little  thing.  There  were  lilies 
in  the  room  that  gave  a  strong,  sweet  scent.  He 
brought  them  up  to  her  to  sniff,  and,  while  she  was 
sniffing,  stooped  suddenly  and  kissed  her  neck.  She 
shut  her  eyes  with  a  shiver.  He  took  the  flowers 
away  at  once,  and  when  she  opened  her  eyes  again, 
his  violin  was  at  his  shoulder.  For  a  whole  hour 
he  played,  and  Gyp,  in  her  cream-coloured  frock, 
lay  back,  listening.  She  was  tired,  not  sleepy. 
It  would  have  been  nice  to  have  been  sleepy.  Her 
mouth  had  its  little  sad  tuck  or  dimple  at  the  corner; 


84  BEYOND 

her  eyes  were  deep  and  dark — a  cloudy  child.  His 
gaze  never  left  her  face;  he  played  and  played, 
and  his  own  fitful  face  grew  clouded.  At  last  he 
put  away  the  violin,  and  said: 

"Go  to  bed,  Gyp;  you're  tired." 

Obediently  she  got  up  and  went  into  the  bed- 
room. With  a  sick  feeling  in  her  heart,  and  as 
near  the  fire  as  she  could  get,  she  undressed  with 
desperate  haste,  and  got  to  bed.  An  age — it  seemed 
— she  lay  there  shivering  in  her  flimsy  lawn  against 
the  cold  sheets,  her  eyes  not  quite  closed,  watch- 
ing the  flicker  of  the  firelight.  She  did  not  think 
— could  not — just  lay  stiller  than  the  dead.  The 
door  creaked.  She  shut  her  eyes.  Had  she  a  heart 
at  all?  It  did  not  seem  to  beat.  She  lay  thus, 
with  eyes  shut,  till  she  could  bear  it  no  longer.  By 
the  firelight  she  saw  him  crouching  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed;  could  just  see  his  face — like  a  face — a 
face — where  seen?  Ah  yes! — a  picture — of  a  wild 
man  crouching  at  the  feet  of  Iphigenia — so  hum- 
ble, so  hungry — so  lost  in  gazing.  She  gave  a  little 
smothered  sob  and  held  out  her  hand. 


II 


Gyp  was  too  proud  to  give  by  halves.  And 
in  those  early  days  she  gave  Fiorsen  everything 
except — her  heart.  She  earnestly  desired  to  give 
that  too;  but  hearts  only  give  themselves.  Per- 
haps if  the  wild  man  in  him,  maddened  by  beauty 
in  its  power,  had  not  so  ousted  the  spirit  man,  her 
heart  might  have  gone  with  her  lips  and  the  rest 
of  her.  He  knew  he  was  not  getting  her  heart,  and 
it  made  him,  in  the  wildness  of  his  nature  and  the 
perversity  of  a  man,  go  just  the  wrong  way  to  work, 
trying  to  conquer  her  by  the  senses,  not  the  soul. 

Yet  she  was  not  unhappy — it  cannot  be  said  she 
was  unhappy,  except  for  a  sort  of  lost  feeling  some- 
times, as  if  she  were  trying  to  grasp  something 
that  kept  slipping,  slipping  away.  She  was  glad 
to  give  him  pleasure.  She  felt  no  repulsion — this 
was  man's  nature.  Only  there  was  always  that 
feeling  that  she  was  not  close.  When  he  was  play- 
ing, with  the  spirit-look  on  his  face,  she  would 
feel:  'Now,  now,  surely  I  shall  get  close  to  him!' 
But  the  look  would  go;  how  to  keep  it  there  she 
did  not  know,  and  when  it  went,  her  feeling  went 
too. 

Their  little  suite  of  rooms  was  at  the  very  end  of 
the  hotel,  so  that  he  might  play  as  much  as  he 
wished.     While  he  practised  in  the  mornings  she 

85 


86  BEYOND 

would  go  into  the  garden,  which  sloped  in  rock- 
terraces  down  to  the  sea.  Wrapped  in  fur,  she 
would  sit  there  with  a  book.  She  soon  knew  each 
evergreen,  or  flower  that  was  coming  out — aubretia, 
and  laurustinus,  a  little  white  flower  whose  name 
was  uncertain,  and  one  star-periwinkle.  The  air 
was  often  soft;  the  birds  sang  already  and  were  busy 
with  their  weddings,  and  twice,  at  least,  spring  came 
in  her  heart — that  wonderful  feeling  when  first  the 
whole  being  scents  new  life  preparing  in  the  earth 
and  the  wind — the  feeling  that  only  comes  when 
spring  is  not  yet,  and  one  aches  and  rejoices  all  at 
once.  Seagulls  often  came  over  her,  craning  down 
their  greedy  bills  and  uttering  cries  like  a  kitten's 
mewing. 

Out  here  she  had  feelings,  that  she  did  not  get 
with  him,  of  being  at  one  with  everything.  She  did 
not  realize  how  tremendously  she  had  grown  up  in 
these  few  days,  how  the  ground  bass  had  already 
come  into  the  light  music  of  her  life.  Living  with 
Fiorsen  was  opening  her  eyes  to  much  beside  mere 
knowledge  of  "man's  nature";  with  her  perhaps 
fatal  receptivity,  she  was  already  soaking  up  the 
atmosphere  of  his  philosophy.  He  was  always  in 
revolt  against  accepting  things  because  he  was  ex- 
pected to;  but,  like  most  executant  artists,  he  was 
no  reasoner,  just  a  mere  instinctive  kicker  against 
the  pricks.  He  would  lose  himself  in  delight  with 
a  sunset,  a  scent,  a  tune,  a  new  caress,  in  a  rush  of 
pity  for  a  beggar  or  a  blind  man,  a  rush  of  aversion 
from  a  man  with  large  feet  or  a  long  nose,  of  hatred 


BEYOND  87 

for  a  woman  with  a  flat  chest  or  an  expression  of 
sanctimony.  He  would  swing  along  when  he  was 
walking,  or  dawdle,  dawdle;  he  would  sing  and 
laugh,  and  make  her  laugh  too  till  she  ached,  and 
half  an  hour  later  would  sit  staring  into  some  pit  of 
darkness  in  a  sort  of  powerful  brooding  of  his  whole 
being.  Insensibly  she  shared  in  this  deep  drinking 
of  sensation,  but  always  gracefully,  fastidiously, 
never  losing  sense  of  other  people's  feelings. 

In  his  love-raptures,  he  just  avoided  setting  her 
nerves  on  edge,  because  he  never  failed  to  make  her 
feel  his  enjoyment  of  her  beauty;  that  perpetual 
consciousness,  too,  of  not  belonging  to  the  proper 
and  respectable,  which  she  had  tried  to  explain  to 
her  father,  made  her  set  her  teeth  against  feeling 
shocked.  But  in  other  ways  he  did  shock  her.  She 
could  not  get  used  to  his  utter  oblivion  of  people's 
feelings,  to  the  ferocious  contempt  with  which  he 
would  look  at  those  who  got  on  his  nerves,  and 
make  half-audible  comments,  just  as  he  had  com- 
mented on  her  own  father  when  he  and  Count 
Rosek  passed  them,  by  the  Schiller  statue.  She 
would  visibly  shrink  at  those  remarks,  though  they 
were  sometimes  so  excruciatingly  funny  that  she 
had  to  laugh,  and  feel  dreadful  immediately  after. 
She  saw  that  he  resented  her  shrinking;  it  seemed  to 
excite  him  to  run  amuck  the  more.  But  she  could 
not  help  it.  Once  she  got  up  and  walked  away. 
He  followed  her,  sat  on  the  floor  beside  her  knees, 
and  thrust  his  head,  like  a  great  cat,  under  her  hand. 

"Forgive  me,  my  Gyp;  but  they  are  such  brutes. 


88  BEYOND 

Who  could  help  it?  Now  tell  me — who  could,  ex- 
cept my  Gyp  ?  "  And  she  had  to  forgive  him.  But, 
one  evening,  when  he  had  been  really  outrageous 
during  dinner,  she  answered: 

"No;  I  can't.  It's  you  that  are  the  brute.  You 
were  a  brute  to  them !" 

He  leaped  up  with  a  face  of  furious  gloom  and 
went  out  of  the  room.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
given  way  to  anger  with  her.  Gyp  sat  by  the  fire, 
very  disturbed;  chiefly  because  she  was  not  really 
upset  at  having  hurt  him.  Surely  she  ought  to  be 
feeling  miserable  at  that ! 

But  when,  at  ten  o'clock,  he  had  not  come  back, 
she  began  to  flutter  in  earnest.  She  had  said  a 
dreadful  thing !  And  yet,  in  her  heart,  she  did  not 
take  back  her  judgment.  He  really  had  been  a 
brute.  She  would  have  liked  to  soothe  herself  by 
playing,  but  it  was  too  late  to  disturb  people,  and 
going  to  the  window,  she  looked  out  over  the  sea, 
feeling  beaten  and  confused.  This  was  the  first 
time  she  had  given  free  rein  to  her  feeling  against 
what  Winton  would  have  called  his  "bounderism." 
If  he  had  been  English,  she  would  never  have  been 
attracted  by  one  who  could  trample  so  on  other 
people's  feelings.  What,  then,  had  attracted  her? 
His  strangeness,  wildness,  the  mesmeric  pull  of  his 
passion  for  her,  his  music !  Nothing  could  spoil  that 
in  him.  The  sweep,  the  surge,  and  sigh  in  his  play- 
ing was  like  the  sea  out  there,  dark,  and  surf-edged, 
beating  on  the  rocks;  or  the  sea  deep-coloured  in 
daylight,  with  white  gulls  over  it;  or  the  sea  with 


BEYOND  89 

those  sinuous  paths  made  by  the  wandering  currents, 
the  subtle,  smiling,  silent  sea,  holding  in  suspense 
its  unfathomable  restlessness,  waiting  to  surge  and 
spring  again.  That  was  what  she  wanted  from  him 
— not  his  embraces,  not  even  his  adoration,  his  wit, 
or  his  queer,  lithe  comeliness  touched  with  felinity; 
no,  only  that  in  his  soul  which  escaped  through  his 
fingers  into  the  air  and  dragged  at  her  soul.  If, 
when  he  came  in,  she  were  to  run  to  him,  throw  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  make  herself  feel  close,  lose 
herself  in  him!  Why  not?  It  was  her  duty;  why 
not  her  delight,  too?  But  she  shivered.  Some  in- 
stinct too  deep  for  analysis,  something  in  the  very 
heart  of  her  nerves  made  her  recoil,  as  if  she  were 
afraid,  literally  scared  of  letting  herself  go,  of  loving 
— the  subtlest  instinct  of  self-preservation  against 
something  fatal;  against  being  led  on  beyond — yes, 
it  was  like  that  curious,  instinctive  sinking  which 
some  feel  at  the  mere  sight  of  a  precipice,  a  dread 
of  going  near,  lest  they  should  be  drawn  on  and 
over  by  resistless  attraction. 

She  passed  into  their  bedroom  and  began  slowly 
to  undress.  To  go  to  bed  without  knowing  where 
he  was,  what  doing,  thinking,  seemed  already  a 
little  odd;  and  she  sat  brushing  her  hair  slowly  with 
the  silver-backed  brushes,  staring  at  her  own  pale 
face,  whose  eyes  looked  so  very  large  and  dark.  At 
last  there  came  to  her  the  feeling:  "I  can't  help  it ! 
I  don't  care!"  And,  getting  into  bed,  she  turned 
out  the  light.  It  seemed  queer  and  lonely;  there 
was  no  fire.     And  then,  without  more  ado,  she  slept. 


90  BEYOND 

She  had  a  dream  of  being  between  Fiorsen  and 
her  father  in  a  railway-carriage  out  at  sea,  with  the 
water  rising  higher  and  higher,  swishing  and  sigh- 
ing. Awakening  always,  like  a  dog,  to  perfect  pres- 
ence of  mind,  she  knew  that  he  was  playing  in  the 
sitting-room,  playing — at  what  time  of  night?  She 
lay  listening  to  a  quivering,  gibbering  tune  that 
she  did  not  know.  Should  she  be  first  to  make  it 
up,  or  should  she  wait  for  him?  Twice  she  half 
slipped  out  of  bed,  but  both  times,  as  if  fate  meant 
her  not  to  move,  he  chose  that  moment  to  swell  out 
the  sound,  and  each  time  she  thought:  'No,  I  can't. 
It's  just  the  same  now;  he  doesn't  care  how  many 
people  he  wakes  up.  He  does  just  what  he  likes, 
and  cares  nothing  for  anyone.'  And  covering  her 
ears  with  her  hands,  she  continued  to  lie  motionless. 

When  she  withdrew  her  hands  at  last,  he  had 
stopped.  Then  she  heard  him  coming,  and  feigned 
sleep.  But  he  did  not  spare  even  sleep.  She  sub- 
mitted to  his  kisses  without  a  word,  her  heart  hard- 
ening within  her — surely  he  smelled  of  brandy! 
Next  morning  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  it  all. 
But  Gyp  had  not.  She  wanted  badly  to  know  what 
he  had  felt,  where  he  had  gone,  but  was  too  proud 
to  ask. 

She  wrote  twice  to  her  father  in  the  first  week, 
but  afterwards,  except  for  a  postcard  now  and 
then,  she  never  could.  Why  tell  him  what  she  was 
doing,  in  company  of  one  whom  he  could  not  bear 
to  think  of  ?  Had  he  been  right  ?  To  confess  that 
would  hurt  her  pride  too  much.     But  she  began  to 


BEYOND  91 

long  for  London.  The  thought  of  her  little  house 
was  a  green  spot  to  dwell  on.  When  they  were  set- 
tled in,  and  could  do  what  they  liked  without  anxiety 
about  people's  feelings,  it  would  be  all  right  perhaps. 
When  he  could  start  again  really  working,  and  she 
helping  him,  all  would  be  different.  Her  new  house, 
and  so  much  to  do;  her  new  garden,  and  fruit-trees 
coming  into  blossom !  She  would  have  dogs  and 
cats,  would  ride  when  Dad  was  in  town.  Aunt 
Rosamund  would  come,  friends,  evenings  of  music, 
dances  still,  perhaps — he  danced  beautifully,  and 
loved  it,  as  she  did.  And  his  concerts — the  elation 
of  being  identified  with  his  success !  But,  above  all, 
the  excitement  of  making  her  home  as  dainty  as  she 
could,  with  daring  experiments  in  form  and  colour. 
And  yet,  at  heart  she  knew  that  to  be  already  look- 
ing forward,  banning  the  present,  was  a  bad  sign. 

One  thing,  at  all  events,  she  enjoyed — sailing. 
They  had  blue  days  when  even  the  March  sun  was 
warm,  and  there  was  just  breeze  enough.  He  got 
on  excellently  well  with  the  old  salt  whose  boat  they 
used,  for  he  was  at  his  best  with  simple  folk,  whose 
lingo  he  could  understand  about  as  much  as  they 
could  understand  his. 

In  those  hours,  Gyp  had  some  real  sensations  of 
romance.  The  sea  was  so  blue,  the  rocks  and 
wooded  spurs  of  that  Southern  coast  so  dreamy  in 
the  bright  land-haze.  Oblivious  of  "  the  old  salt," 
he  would  put  his  arm  round  her;  out  there,  she  could 
swallow  down  her  sense  of  form,  and  be  grateful  for 
feeling  nearer  to  him  in  spirit.     She  made  loyal 


92  BEYOND 

efforts  to  understand  him  in  these  weeks  that  were 
bringing  a  certain  disillusionment.  The  elemental 
part  of  marriage  was  not  the  trouble;  if  she  did  not 
herself  feel  passion,  she  did  not  resent  his.  When, 
after  one  of  those  embraces,  his  mouth  curled  with  a 
little  bitter  smile,  as  if  to  say,  "Yes,  much  you  care 
for  me,"  she  would  feel  compunctious  and  yet  ag- 
grieved. But  the  trouble  lay  deeper — the  sense  of 
an  insuperable  barrier;  and  always  that  deep,  in- 
stinctive recoil  from  letting  herself  go.  She  could 
not  let  herself  be  known,  and  she  could  not  know 
him.  Why  did  his  eyes  often  fix  her  with  a  stare 
that  did  not  seem  to  see  her?  What  made  him,  in 
the  midst  of  serious  playing,  break  into  some  furious 
or  desolate  little  tune,  or  drop  his  violin?  What 
gave  him  those  long  hours  of  dejection,  following 
the  maddest  gaiety?  Above  all,  what  dreams  had 
he  in  those  rare  moments  when  music  transformed 
his  strange  pale  face?  Or  was  it  a  mere  physical 
illusion — had  he  any  dreams?  "The  heart  of  an- 
other is  a  dark  forest" — -to  all  but  the  one  who  loves. 

One  morning,  he  held  up  a  letter. 

"Ah,  ha!  Paul  Rosek  went  to  see  our  house. 
'A  pretty  dove's  nest !'  he  calls  it." 

The  memory  of  the  Pole's  sphinxlike,  sweetish 
face,  and  eyes  that  seemed  to  know  so  many  secrets, 
always  affected  Gyp  unpleasantly.     She  said  quietly : 

"Why  do  you  like  him,  Gustav?" 

"Like  him?  Oh,  he  is  useful.  A  good  judge  of 
music,  and — many  things." 

"I  think  he  is  hateful." 


BEYOND  93 

Fiorsen  laughed. 

"Hateful?  Why  hateful,  my  Gyp?  He  is  a 
good  friend.  And  he  admires  you — oh,  he  admires 
you  very  much !  He  has  success  with  women.  He 
always  says,  'J'ai  une  technique  merveilleuse  pour 
seduire  unefemme. ' " 

Gyp  laughed. 

"Ugh !    He's  like  a  toad,  I  think." 

"Ah,  I  shall  tell  him  that !    He  will  be  nattered." 

"If  you  do;  if  you  give  me  away — I " 

He  jumped  up  and  caught  her  in  his  arms;  his 
face  was  so  comically  compunctious  that  she  calmed 
down  at  once.  She  thought  over  her  words  after- 
wards and  regretted  them.  All  the  same,  Rosek 
was  a  sneak  and  a  cold  sensualist,  she  was  sure. 
And  the  thought  that  he  had  been  spying  at  their 
little  house  tarnished  her  anticipations  of  home- 
coming. 

They  went  to  Town  three  days  later.  While  the 
taxi  was  skirting  Lord's  Cricket-ground,  Gyp  slipped 
her  hand  into  Fiorsen's.  She  was  brimful  of  excite- 
ment. The  trees  were  budding  in  the  gardens  that 
they  passed;  the  almond-blossom  coming — yes,  really 
coming !  They  were  in  the  road  now.  Five,  seven, 
nine — thirteen!  Two  more!  There  it  was,  nine- 
teen, in  white  figures  on  the  leaf-green  railings,  under 
the  small  green  lilac  buds;  yes,  and  their  almond- 
blossom  was  out,  too!  She  could  just  catch  a 
glimpse  over  those  tall  railings  of  the  low  white 
house  with  its  green  outside  shutters.  She  jumped 
out  almost  into  the  arms  of  Betty,  who  stood  smil- 


94  BEYOND 

ing  all  over  her  broad,  flushed  face,  while,  from  under 
each  arm  peered  forth  the  head  of  a  black  devil, 
with  pricked  ears  and  eyes  as  bright  as  diamonds. 
"  Betty !  What  darlings ! " 
"Major  Winton's  present,  my  dear — ma'am!" 
Giving  the  stout  shoulders  a  hug,  Gyp  seized  the 
black  devils,  and  ran  up  the  path  under  the  trellis, 
while  the  Scotch-terrier  pups,  squeezed  against  her 
breast,  made  confused  small  noises  and  licked  her 
nose  and  ears.  Through  the  square  hall  she  ran 
into  the  drawing-room,  which  opened  out  on  to  the 
lawn;  and  there,  in  the  French  window,  stood  spy- 
ing back  at  the  spick-and-span  room,  where  every- 
thing was,  of  course,  placed  just  wrong.  The  col- 
ouring, white,  ebony,  and  satinwood,  looked  nicer 
even  than  she  had  hoped.  Out  in  the  garden — her 
own  garden — the  pear-trees  were  thickening,  but 
not  in  blossom  yet;  a  few  daffodils  were  in  bloom 
along  the  walls,  and  a  magnolia  had  one  bud  opened. 
And  all  the  time  she  kept  squeezing  the  puppies  to 
her,  enjoying  their  young,  warm,  fluffy  savour,  and 
letting  them  kiss  her.  She  ran  out  of  the  drawing- 
room,  up  the  stairs.  Her  bedroom,  the  dressing- 
room,  the  spare  room,  the  bathroom — she  dashed 
into  them  all.  Oh,  it  was  nice  to  be  in  your  own 
place,  to  be —  Suddenly  she  felt  herself  lifted  off 
the  ground  from  behind,  and  in  that  undignified 
position,  her  eyes  flying,  she  turned  her  face  till  he 
could  reach  her  lips. 


Ill 

To  wake,  and  hear  the  birds  at  early  practise, 
and  feel  that  winter  is  over — is  there  any  pleasanter 
moment  ? 

That  first  morning  in  her  new  house,  Gyp  woke 
with  the  sparrow,  or  whatever  the  bird  which  utters 
the  first  cheeps  and  twitters,  soon  eclipsed  by  so 
much  that  is  more  important  in  bird-song.  It 
seemed  as  if  all  the  feathered  creatures  in  London 
must  be  assembled  in  her  garden;  and  the  old  verse 
came  into  her  head: 

"  All  dear  Nature's  children  sweet 
Lie  at  bride  and  bridegroom's  feet, 
Blessing  their  sense. 
Not  a  creature  of  the  air, 
Bird  melodious  or  bird  fair, 
Be  absent  hence !" 

She  turned  and  looked  at  her  husband.  He  lay 
with  his  head  snoozled  down  into  the  pillow,  so  that 
she  could  only  see  his  thick,  rumpled  hair.  And  a 
shiver  went  through  her,  exactly  as  if  a  strange  man 
were  lying  there.  Did  he  really  belong  to  her,  and 
she  to  him — for  good?  And  was  this  their  house — 
together?  It  all  seemed  somehow  different,  more 
serious  and  troubling,  in  this  strange  bed,  of  this 
strange  room,  that  was  to  be  so  permanent.     Care- 

95 


96  BEYOND 

ful  not  to  wake  him,  she  slipped  out  and  stood  be- 
tween the  curtains  and  the  window.  Light  was  all 
in  confusion  yet;  away  low  down  behind  the  trees, 
the  rose  of  dawn  still  clung.  One  might  almost  have 
been  in  the  country,  but  for  the  faint,  rumorous 
noises  of  the  town  beginning  to  wake,  and  that  film 
of  ground-mist  which  veils  the  feet  of  London  morn- 
ings. She  thought:  "I  am  mistress  in  this  house, 
have  to  direct  it  all — see  to  everything!  And  my 
pups !    Oh,  what  do  they  eat?" 

That  was  the  first  of  many  hours  of  anxiety,  for 
she  was  very  conscientious.  Her  fastidiousness  de- 
sired perfection,  but  her  sensitiveness  refused  to  de- 
mand it  of  others — especially  servants.  Why  should 
she  harry  them? 

Fiorsen  had  not  the  faintest  notion  of  regularity. 
She  found  that  he  could  not  even  begin  to  appreciate 
her  struggles  in  housekeeping.  And  she  was  much 
too  proud  to  ask  his  help,  or  perhaps  too  wise,  since 
he  was  obviously  unfit  to  give  it.  To  live  like  the 
birds  of  the  air  was  his  motto.  Gyp  would  have 
liked  nothing  better;  but,  for  that,  one  must  not 
have  a  house  with  three  servants,  several  meals,  two 
puppy-dogs,  and  no  great  experience  of  how  to  deal 
with  any  of  them. 

She  spoke  of  her  difficulties  to  no  one  and  suffered 
the  more.  With  Betty — who,  bone-conservative, 
admitted  Fiorsen  as  hardly  as  she  had  once  admitted 
Winton — she  had  to  be  very  careful.  But  her  great 
trouble  was  with  her  father.  Though  she  longed 
to  see  him,  she  literally  dreaded  their  meeting.     He 


BEYOND  97 

first  came — as  he  had  been  wont  to  come  when  she 
was  a  tiny  girl — at  the  hour  when  he  thought  the 
fellow  to  whom  she  now  belonged  would  most  likely 
be  out.  Her  heart  beat,  when  she  saw  him  under 
the  trellis.  She  opened  the  door  herself,  and  hung 
about  him  so  that  his  shrewd  eyes  should  not  see 
her  face.  And  she  began  at  once  to  talk  of  the  pup- 
pies, whom  she  had  named  Don  and  Doff.  They 
were  perfect  darlings;  nothing  was  safe  from  them; 
her  slippers  were  completely  done  for;  they  had  al- 
ready got  into  her  china-cabinet  and  gone  to  sleep 
there !    He  must  come  and  see  all  over. 

Hooking  her  arm  into  his,  and  talking  all  the 
time,  she  took  him  up-stairs  and  down,  and  out 
into  the  garden,  to  the  studio,  or  music-room,  at 
the  end,  which  had  an  entrance  to  itself  on  to  a 
back  lane.  This  room  had  been  the  great  attrac- 
tion. Fiorsen  could  practice  there  in  peace.  Win- 
ton  went  along  with  her  very  quietly,  making  a 
shrewd  comment  now  and  then.  At  the  far  end  of 
the  garden,  looking  over  the  wall,  down  into  that 
narrow  passage  which  lay  between  it  and  the  back 
of  another  garden  he  squeezed  her  arm  suddenly 
and  said: 

"Well,  Gyp,  what  sort  of  a  time?" 

The  question  had  come  at  last. 

"Oh,  rather  lovely — in  some  ways."  But  she  did 
not  look  at  him,  nor  he  at  her.  "See,  Dad!  The 
cats  have  made  quite  a  path  there !" 

Winton  bit  his  lips  and  turned  from  the  wall. 
The  thought  of  that  fellow  was  bitter  within  him. 


98  BEYOND 

She  meant  to  tell  him  nothing,  meant  to  keep  up 
that  lighthearted  look — which  didn't  deceive  him  a 
bit! 

"Look  at  my  crocuses!  It's  really  spring  to- 
day!" 

It  was.  Even  a  bee  or  two  had  come.  The  tiny 
leaves  had  a  transparent  look,  too  thin  as  yet  to 
keep  the  sunlight  from  passing  through  them.  The 
purple,  delicate-veined  crocuses,  with  little  flames 
of  orange  blowing  from  their  centres,  seemed  to  hold 
the  light  as  in  cups.  A  wind,  without  harshness, 
swung  the  boughs;  a  dry  leaf  or  two  still  rustled 
round  here  and  there.  And  on  the  grass,  and  in 
the  blue  sky,  and  on  the  almond-blossom  was  the 
first  spring  brilliance.  Gyp  clasped  her  hands  be- 
hind her  head. 

"Lovely — to  feel  the  spring!" 

And  Winton  thought:  ' She's  changed  ! '  She  had 
softened,  quickened — more  depth  of  colour  in  her, 
more  gravity,  more  sway  in  her  body,  more  sweet- 
ness in  her  smile.    But — was  she  happy? 

A  voice  said: 

"Ah,  what  a  pleasure  !" 

The  fellow  had  slunk  up  like  the  great  cat  he  was. 
And  it  seemed  to  Winton  that  Gyp  had  winced. 

"Dad  thinks  we  ought  to  have  dark  curtains  in 
the  music-room,  Gustav." 

Fiorsen  made  a  bow. 

"Yes,  yes — like  a  London  club." 

Winton,  watching,  was  sure  of  supplication  in 
her  face.    And,  forcing  a  smile,  he  said: 


BEYOND  99 

"You  seem  very  snug  here.  Glad  to  see  you 
again.    Gyp  looks  splendid." 

Another  of  those  bows  he  so  detested !  Mounte- 
bank! Never,  never  would  he  be  able  to  stand 
the  fellow !  But  he  must  not,  would  not,  show  it. 
And,  as  soon  as  he  decently  could,  he  went,  taking 
his  lonely  way  back  through  this  region,  of  which 
his  knowledge  was  almost  limited  to  Lord's  Cricket- 
ground,  with  a  sense  of  doubt  and  desolation,  an 
irritation  more  than  ever  mixed  with  the  resolve  to 
be  always  at  hand  if  the  child  wanted  him. 

He  had  not  been  gone  ten  minutes  before  Aunt 
Rosamund  appeared,  with  a  crutch-handled  stick 
and  a  gentlemanly  limp,  for  she,  too,  indulged  her 
ancestors  in  gout.  A  desire  for  exclusive  possession 
of  their  friends  is  natural  to  some  people,  and  the 
good  lady  had  not  known  how  fond  she  was  of  her 
niece  till  the  girl  had  slipped  off  into  this  marriage. 
She  wanted  her  back,  to  go  about  with  and  make 
much  of,  as  before.  And  her  well-bred  drawl  did 
not  quite  disguise  this  feeling. 

Gyp  could  detect  Fiorsen  subtly  mimicking  that 
drawl;  and  her  ears  began  to  burn.  The  puppies 
afforded  a  diversion — their  points,  noses,  boldness, 
and  food,  held  the  danger  in  abeyance  for  some 
minutes.  Then  the  mimicry  began  again.  When 
Aunt  Rosamund  had  taken  a  somewhat  sudden 
leave,  Gyp  stood  at  the  window  of  her  drawing- 
room  with  the  mask  off  her  face.  Fiorsen  came  up, 
put  his  arm  round  her  from  behind,  and  said  with 
a  fierce  sigh: 


ioo  BEYOND 

"Are  they  coming  often — these  excellent  peo- 
ple?" 

Gyp  drew  back  from  him  against  the  wall. 

"If  you  love  me,  why  do  you  try  to  hurt  the 
people  who  love  me  too?" 

"Because  I  am  jealous.  I  am  jealous  even  of 
those  puppies." 

"And  shall  you  try  to  hurt  them?" 

"If  I  see  them  too  much  near  you,  perhaps  I 
shall." 

"Do  you  think  I  can  be  happy  if  you  hurt  things 
because  they  love  me?" 

He  sat  down  and  drew  her  on  to  his  knee.  She 
did  not  resist,  but  made  not  the  faintest  return  to 
his  caresses.  The  first  time — the  very  first  friend 
to  come  into  her  own  new  home !    It  was  too  much ! 

Fiorsen  said  hoarsely: 

"You  do  not  love  me.  If  you  loved  me,  I  should 
feel  it  through  your  lips.  I  should  see  it  in  your 
eyes.    Oh,  love  me,  Gyp!    You  shall!" 

But  to  say  to  Love:  "Stand  and  deliver!"  was 
not  the  way  to  touch  Gyp.  It  seemed  to  her  mere 
ill-bred  stupidity.  She  froze  against  him  in  soul, 
all  the  more  that  she  yielded  her  body.  When 
a  woman  refuses  nothing  to  one  whom  she  does 
not  really  love,  shadows  are  already  falling  on  the 
bride-house.  And  Fiorsen  knew  it;  but  his  self- 
control  about  equalled  that  of  the  two  puppies. 

Yet,  on  the  whole,  these  first  weeks  in  her  new 
home  were  happy,  too  busy  to  allow  much  room 
for  doubting  or  regret.    Several  important  concerts 


BEYOND  ioi 

were  fixed  for  May.  She  looked  forward  to  these 
with  intense  eagerness,  and  pushed  everything  that 
interfered  with  preparation  into  the  background. 
As  though  to  make  up  for  that  instinctive  recoil 
from  giving  her  heart,  of  which  she  was  always 
subconscious,  she  gave  him  all  her  activities,  with- 
out calculation  or  reserve.  She  was  ready  to  play 
for  him  all  day  and  every  day,  just  as  from  the 
first  she  had  held  herself  at  the  disposal  of  his  pas- 
sion. To  fail  him  in  these  ways  would  have  tarnished 
her  opinion  of  herself.  But  she  had  some  free  hours 
in  the  morning,  for  he  had  the  habit  of  lying  in 
bed  till  eleven,  and  was  never  ready  for  practise 
before  twelve.  In  those  early  hours  she  got  through 
her  orders  and  her  shopping — that  pursuit  which 
to  so  many  women  is  the  only  real  "  sport" — a 
chase  of  the  ideal;  a  pitting  of  one's  taste  and 
knowledge  against  that  of  the  world  at  large;  a 
secret  passion,  even  in  the  beautiful,  for  making 
oneself  and  one's  house  more  beautiful.  Gyp  never 
went  shopping  without  that  faint  thrill  running  up 
and  down  her  nerves.  She  hated  to  be  touched  by 
strange  fingers,  but  not  even  that  stopped  her 
pleasure  in  turning  and  turning  before  long  mirrors, 
while  the  saleswoman  or  man,  with  admiration  at 
first  crocodilic  and  then  genuine,  ran  the  tips  of 
fingers  over  those  curves,  smoothing  and  pinning, 
and  uttering  the  word,  "  moddam." 

On  other  mornings,  she  would  ride  with  Winton, 
who  would  come  for  her,  leaving  her  again  at  her 
door  after  their  outings.     One  day,  after  a  ride  in 


102  BEYOND 

Richmond  Park,  where  the  horse-chestnuts  were 
just  coming  into  flower,  they  had  late  breakfast 
on  the  veranda  of  a  hotel  before  starting  for  home. 
Some  fruit-trees  were  still  in  blossom  just  below 
them,  and  the  sunlight  showering  down  from  a 
blue  sky  brightened  to  silver  the  windings  of  the 
river,  and  to  gold  the  budding  leaves  of  the  oak- 
trees.  Winton,  smoking  his  after-breakfast  cigar, 
stared  down  across  the  tops  of  those  trees  toward 
the  river  and  the  wooded  fields  beyond.  Stealing 
a  glance  at  him,  Gyp  said  very  softly: 

"Did  you  ever  ride  with  my  mother,  Dad?" 

"Only  once — the  very  ride  we've  been  to-day. 
She  was  on  a  black  mare;  I  had  a  chestnut — " 
Yes,  in  that  grove  on  the  little  hill,  which  they  had 
ridden  through  that  morning,  he  had  dismounted 
and  stood  beside  her. 

Gyp  stretched  her  hand  across  the  table  and  laid 
it  on  his. 

"Tell  me  about  her,  dear.    Was  she  beautiful?" 

"Yes." 

"Dark?    Tall?" 

"Very  like  you,  Gyp.  A  little— a  little"— he 
did  not  know  how  to  describe  that  difference — "a 
little  more  foreign-looking  perhaps.  One  of  her 
grandmothers  was  Italian,  you  know." 

"How  did  you  come  to  love  her?    Suddenly?" 

"As  suddenly  as" — he  drew  his  hand  away  and 
laid  it  on  the  veranda  rail — "as  that  sun  came  on 
my  hand." 

Gyp  said  quietly,  as  if  to  herself: 


BEYOND  103 

'Yes;   I  don't  think  I  understand  that — yet." 

Winton  drew  breath  through  his  teeth  with  a 
subdued  hiss. 

"Did  she  love  you  at  first  sight,  too?" 

He  blew  out  a  long  puff  of  smoke. 

"One  easily  believes  what  one  wants  to — but  I 
think  she  did.    She  used  to  say  so." 

"And  how  long?" 

"Only  a  year." 

Gyp  said  very  softly : 

"Poor  darling  Dad."  And  suddenly  she  added: 
"I  can't  bear  to  think  I  killed  her — I  can't  bear  it !" 

Winton  got  up  in  the  discomfort  of  these  sudden 
confidences;  a  blackbird,  startled  by  the  movement, 
ceased  his  song.    Gyp  said  in  a  hard  voice: 

"No;    I  don't  want  to  have  any  children." 

"Without  that,  I  shouldn't  have  had  you,  Gyp." 

"No;  but  I  don't  want  to  have  them.  And  I 
don't — I  don't  want  to  love  like  that.  I  should 
be  afraid." 

Winton  looked  at  her  for  a  long  time  without 
speaking,  his  brows  drawn  down,  frowning,  puzzled, 
as  though  over  his  own  past. 

"Love,"  he  said,  "it  catches  you,  and  you're 
gone.  When  it  comes,  you  welcome  it,  whether 
it's  to  kill  you  or  not.  Shall  we  start  back,  my 
child?" 

When  she  got  home,  it  was  not  quite  noon.  She 
hurried  over  her  bath  and  dressing,  and  ran  out 
to  the  music-room.  Its  walls  had  been  hung  with 
Willesden   scrim   gilded   over;     the   curtains   were 


104  BEYOND 

silver-grey;  there  was  a  divan  covered  with  silver- 
and-gold  stuff,  and  a  beaten  brass  fireplace.  It 
was  a  study  in  silver,  and  gold,  save  for  two  touches 
of  fantasy — a  screen  round  the  piano-head,  covered 
with  brilliantly  painted  peacocks'  tails,  and  a  blue 
Persian  vase,  in  which  were  flowers  of  various  hues 
of  red. 

Fiorsen  was  standing  at  the  window  in  a  fume  of 
cigarette  smoke.  He  did  not  turn  round.  Gyp 
put  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  said: 

"So  sorry,  dear.  But  it's  only  just  half -past 
twelve." 

His  face  was  as  if  the  whole  world  had  injured 
him. 

"Pity  you  came  back!  Very  nice,  riding,  I'm 
sure!" 

Could  she  not  go  riding  with  her  own  father? 
What  insensate  jealousy  and  egomania !  She  turned 
away,  without  a  word,  and  sat  down  at  the  piano. 
She  was  not  good  at  standing  injustice — not  good 
at  all !  The  scent  of  brandy,  too,  was  mixed  with 
the  fumes  of  his  cigarette.  Drink  in  the  morning 
was  so  ugly — really  horrid!  She  sat  at  the  piano, 
waiting.  He  would  be  like  this  till  he  had  played 
away  the  fumes  of  his  ill  mood,  and  then  he  would 
come  and  paw  her  shoulders  and  put  his  lips  to  her 
neck.  Yes;  but  it  was  not  the  way  to  behave, 
not  the  way  to  make  her  love  him.  And  she  said 
suddenly : 

"Gustav;  what  exactly  have  I  done  that  you 
dislike?" 


BEYOND  IOS 

"You  have  had  a  father." 

Gyp  sat  quite  still  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then 
began  to  laugh.  He  looked  so  like  a  sulky  child, 
standing  there.  He  turned  swiftly  on  her  and  put 
his  hand  over  her  mouth.  She  looked  up  over  that 
hand  which  smelled  of  tobacco.  Her  heart  was 
doing  the  grand  ecart  within  her,  this  way  in  com- 
punction, that  way  in  resentment.  His  eyes  fell 
before  hers;  he  dropped  his  hand. 

"Well,  shall  we  begin?"  she  said. 

He  answered  roughly:  "No,"  and  went  out  into 
the  garden. 

Gyp  was  left  dismayed,  disgusted.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  she  could  have  taken  part  in  such  a  horrid 
little  scene?  She  remained  sitting  at  the  piano, 
playing  over  and  over  a  single  passage,  without 
heeding  what  it  was. 


IV 

So  far,  they  had  seen  nothing  of  Rosek  at  the 
little  house.  She  wondered  if  Fiorsen  had  passed 
on  to  him  her  remark,  though  if  he  had,  he  would 
surely  say  he  hadn't;  she  had  learned  that  her 
husband  spoke  the  truth  when  convenient,  not 
when  it  caused  him  pain.  About  music,  or  any  art, 
however,  he  could  be  implicitly  relied  on;  and  his 
frankness  was  appalling  when  his  nerves  were  ruf- 
fled. 

But  at  the  first  concert  she  saw  Rosek's  unwel- 
come figure  on  the  other  side  of  the  gangway,  two 
rows  back.  He  was  talking  to  a  young  girl,  whose 
face,  short  and  beautifully  formed,  had  the  opaque 
transparency  of  alabaster.  With  her  round  blue 
eyes  fixed  on  him,  and  her  lips  just  parted,  she  had 
a  slightly  vacant  look.  Her  laugh,  too,  was  just 
a  little  vacant.  And  yet  her  features  were  so  beau- 
tiful, her  hair  so  smooth  and  fair,  her  colouring  so 
pale  and  fine,  her  neck  so  white  and  round,  the 
poise  of  her  body  so  perfect  that  Gyp  found  it  dif- 
ficult to  take  her  glance  away.  She  had  refused 
her  aunt's  companionship.  It  might  irritate  Fiorsen 
and  affect  his  playing  to  see  her  with  "that  stiff 
English  creature."  She  wanted,  too,  to  feel  again  the 
sensations  of  Wiesbaden.  There  would  be  a  kind  of 
sacred  pleasure  in  knowing  that  she  had  helped  to 
perfect  sounds  which  touched  the  hearts  and  senses 

106 


BEYOND  107 

of  so  many  listeners.  She  had  looked  forward  to 
this  concert  so  long.  And  she  sat  scarcely  breath- 
ing, abstracted  from  consciousness  of  those  about 
her,  soft  and  still,  radiating  warmth  and  eagerness. 
Fiorsen  looked  his  worst,  as  ever,  when  first 
coming  before  an  audience — cold,  furtive,  defen- 
sive, defiant,  half  turned  away,  with  those  long 
fingers  tightening  the  screws,  touching  the  strings. 
It  seemed  queer  to  think  that  only  six  hours  ago 
she  had  stolen  out  of  bed  from  beside  him.  Wies- 
baden! No;  this  was  not  like  Wiesbaden!  And 
when  he  played  she  had  not  the  same  emotions. 
She  had  heard  him  now  too  often,  knew  too  ex- 
actly how  he  produced  those  sounds;  knew  that 
their  fire  and  sweetness  and  nobility  sprang  from 
fingers,  ear,  brain — not  from  his  soul.  Nor  was  it 
possible  any  longer  to  drift  off  on  those  currents  of 
sound  into  new  worlds,  to  hear  bells  at  dawn,  and 
the  dews  of  evening  as  they  fell,  to  feel  the  divinity 
of  wind  and  sunlight.  The  romance  and  ecstasy 
that  at  Wiesbaden  had  soaked  her  spirit  came  no 
more.  She  was  watching  for  the  weak  spots,  the 
passages  with  which  he  had  struggled  and  she  had 
struggled;  she  was  distracted  by  memories  of 
petulance,  black  moods,  and  sudden  caresses.  And 
then  she  caught  his  eye.  The  look  was  like,  yet 
how  unlike,  those  looks  at  Wiesbaden.  It  had  the 
old  love-hunger,  but  had  lost  the  adoration,  its 
spiritual  essence.  And  she  thought:  ' Is  it  my  fault, 
or  is  it  only  because  he  has  me  now  to  do  what  he 
likes  with?'     It  was   all   another   disillusionment, 


108  BEYOND 

perhaps  the  greatest  yet.  But  she  kindled  and 
flushed  at  the  applause,  and  lost  herself  in  pleasure 
at  his  success.  At  the  interval,  she  slipped  out  at 
once,  for  her  first  visit  to  the  artist's  room,  the 
mysterious  enchantment  of  a  peep  behind  the  scenes. 
He  was  coming  down  from  his  last  recall;  and  at 
sight  of  her  his  look  of  bored  contempt  vanished; 
lifting  her  hand,  he  kissed  it.  Gyp  felt  happier 
than  she  had  since  her  marriage.  Her  eyes  shone, 
and  she  whispered: 

"Beautiful!" 

He  whispered  back : 

"So!    Do  you  love  me,  Gyp?" 

She  nodded.  And  at  that  moment  she  did,  or 
thought  so. 

Then  people  began  to  come;  amongst  them  her 
old  music-master,  Monsieur  Harmost,  grey  and 
mahogany  as  ever,  who,  after  a  " Merveilleux" 
"Tres  jorV  or  two  to  Fiorsen,  turned  his  back  on 
him  to  talk  to  his  old  pupil. 

So  she  had  married  Fiorsen — dear,  dear!  That 
was  extraordinary,  but  extraordinary!  And  what 
was  it  like,  to  be  always  with  him — a  little  funny — 
not  so?  And  how  was  her  music?  It  would  be 
spoiled  now.  Ah,  what  a  pity !  No  ?  She  must 
come  to  him,  then;  yes,  come  again.  All  the  time 
he  patted  her  arm,  as  if  playing  the  piano,  and 
his  fingers,  that  had  the  touch  of  an  angel,  felt  the 
firmness  of  her  flesh,  as  though  debating  whether 
she  were  letting  it  deteriorate.  He  seemed  really 
to  have  missed  "his  little  friend,"  to  be  glad  at 


BEYOND  109 

seeing  her  again;  and  Gyp,  who  never  could  with- 
stand appreciation,  smiled  at  him.  More  people 
came.  She  saw  Rosek  talking  to  her  husband,  and 
the  young  alabaster  girl  standing  silent,  her  lips 
still  a  little  parted,  gazing  up  at  Fiorsen.  A  perfect 
figure,  though  rather  short;  a  dovelike  face,  whose 
exquisitely  shaped,  just-opened  lips  seemed  to  be 
demanding  sugar-plums.  She  could  not  be  more 
than  nineteen.    Who  was  she? 

A  voice  said  almost  in  her  ear: 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Fiorsen?  I  am  fortunate 
to  see  you  again  at  last." 

She  was  obliged  to  turn.  If  Gustav  had  given 
her  away,  one  would  never  know  it  from  this  velvet- 
masked  creature,  with  his  suave  watchfulness  and 
ready  composure,  who  talked  away  so  smoothly. 
What  was  it  that  she  so  disliked  in  him?  Gyp 
had  acute  instincts,  the  natural  intelligence  deep 
in  certain  natures  not  over  intellectual,  but  whose 
"feelers"  are  too  delicate  to  be  deceived.  And, 
for  something  to  say,  she  asked: 

"Who  is  the  girl  you  were  talking  to,  Count 
Rosek?    Her  face  is  so  lovely." 

He  smiled,  exactly  the  smile  she  had  so  disliked 
at  Wiesbaden;  following  his  glance,  she  saw  her 
husband  talking  to  the  girl,  whose  lips  at  that  mo- 
ment seemed  more  than  ever  to  ask  for  sugar- 
plums. 

"A  young  dancer,  Daphne  Wing — she  will  make 
a  name.  A  dove  flying !  So  you  admire  her,  Ma- 
dame Gyp?" 


no  BEYOND 

Gyp  said,  smiling : 

"She's  very  pretty — I  can  imagine  her  dancing 
beautifully." 

"Will  you  come  one  day  and  see  her?  She  has 
still  to  make  her  debut." 

Gyp  answered: 

"Thank  you.  I  don't  know.  I  love  dancing,  of 
course." 

"  Good !    I  will  arrange  it." 

And  Gyp  thought:  "No,  no!  I  don't  want  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  you  !  Why  do  I  not  speak 
the  truth?    Why  didn't  I  say  I  hate  dancing?" 

Just  then  a  bell  sounded;  people  began  hurrying 
away.    The  girl  came  up  to  Rosek. 

"Miss  Daphne  Wing — Mrs.  Fiorsen." 

Gyp  put  out  her  hand  with  a  smile — this  girl 
was  certainly  a  picture.  Miss  Daphne  Wing  smiled, 
too,  and  said,  with  the  intonation  of  those  who 
have  been  carefully  corrected  of  an  accent: 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  how  beautifully  your  hus- 
band plays — doesn't  he?" 

It  was  not  merely  the  careful  speech  but  some- 
thing lacking  when  the  perfect  mouth  moved — 
spirit,  sensibility,  who  could  say?  And  Gyp  felt 
sorry,  as  at  blight  on  a  perfect  flower.  With  a 
friendly  nod,  she  turned  away  to  Fiorsen,  who  was 
waiting  to  go  up  on  to  the  platform.  Was  it  at  her 
or  at  the  girl  he  had  been  looking?  She  smiled  at 
him  and  slid  away.  In  the  corridor,  Rosek,  in  at- 
tendance, said: 

"Why   not   this   evening?     Come   with   Gustav 


BEYOND  1 1 1 

to  my  rooms.  She  shall  dance  to  us,  and  we  will 
all  have  supper.  She  admires  you,  Madame  Gyp. 
She  will  love  to  dance  for  you." 

Gyp  longed  for  the  simple  brutality  to  say:  "  I 
don't  want  to  come.  I  don't  like  you !  "  But  all 
she  could  manage  was: 

"Thank  you.  I — I  will  ask  Gustav." 
Once  in  her  seat  again,  she  rubbed  the  cheek 
that  his  breath  had  touched.  A  girl  was  singing 
now — one  of  those  faces  that  Gyp  always  admired, 
reddish-gold  hair,  blue  eyes — the  very  antithesis 
of  herself — and  the  song  was  "The  Bens  of  Jura," 
that  strange  outpouring  from  a  heart  broken  by 
love: 

"And  my  heart  reft  of  its  own  sun " 

Tears  rose  in  her  eyes,  and  the  shiver  of  some 
very  deep  response  passed  through  her.  What 
was  it  Dad  had  said:  "Love  catches  you,  and 
you're  gone !  " 

She,  who  was  the  result  of  love  like  that,  did 
not  want  to  love ! 

The  girl  finished  singing.  There  was  little  ap- 
plause. Yet  she  had  sung  beautifully;  and  what 
more  wonderful  song  in  the  world?  Was  it  too 
tragic,  too  painful,  too  strange — not  "pretty" 
enough?  Gyp  felt  sorry  for  her.  Her  head  ached 
now.  She  would  so  have  liked  to  slip  away  when 
it  was  all  over.  But  she  had  not  the  needful  rude- 
ness. She  would  have  to  go  through  with  this 
evening  at  Rosek's  and  be  gay.     And  why  not? 


H2  BEYOND 

Why  this  shadow  over  everything?  But  it  was 
no  new  sensation,  that  of  having  entered  by  her 
own  free  will  on  a  life  which,  for  all  effort,  would 
not  give  her  a  feeling  of  anchorage  or  home.  Of 
her  own  accord  she  had  stepped  into  the  cage! 

On  the  way  to  Rosek's  rooms,  she  disguised  from 
Fiorsen  her  headache  and  depression.  He  was  in 
one  of  his  boy-out-of-school  moods,  elated  by  ap- 
plause, mimicking  her  old  master,  the  idolatries  of 
his  worshippers,  Rosek,  the  girl  dancer's  upturned 
expectant  lips.  And  he  slipped  his  arm  round  Gyp 
in  the  cab,  crushing  her  against  him  and  sniffing  at 
her  cheek  as  if  she  had  been  a  flower. 

Rosek  had  the  first  floor  of  an  old-time  mansion 
in  Russell  Square.  The  smell  of  incense  or  some 
kindred  perfume  was  at  once  about  one;  and,  on  the 
walls  of  the  dark  hall,  electric  light  burned,  in  jars 
of  alabaster  picked  up  in  the  East.  The  whole  place 
was  in  fact  a  sanctum  of  the  collector's  spirit.  Its 
owner  had  a  passion  for  black — the  walls,  divans, 
picture-frames,  even  some  of  the  tilings  were  black, 
with  ghmmerings  of  gold,  ivory,  and  moonlight. 
On  a  round  black  table  there  stood  a  golden  bowl 
filled  with  moonlight-coloured  velvety  "palm"  and 
" honesty";  from  a  black  wall  gleamed  out  the  ivory 
mask  of  a  faun's  face;  from  a  dark  niche  the  little 
silver  figure  of  a  dancing  girl.  It  was  beautiful,  but 
deathly.  And  Gyp,  though  excited  always  by  any- 
thing new,  keenly  alive  to  every  sort  of  beauty,  felt 
a  longing  for  air  and  sunlight.  It  was  a  relief  to 
get  close  to  one  of  the  black-curtained  windows,  and 


BEYOND  113 

see  the  westering  sun  shower  warmth  and  light  on 
the  trees  of  the  Square  gardens.  She  was  introduced 
to  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gallant,  a  dark-faced,  cynical- 
looking  man  with  clever,  malicious  eyes,  and  one  of 
those  large  cornucopias  of  women  with  avid  blue 
stares.  The  little  dancer  was  not  there.  She  had 
"gone  to  put  on  nothing,"  Rosek  informed  them. 

He  took  Gyp  the  round  of  his  treasures,  scarabs, 
Rops  drawings,  death-masks,  Chinese  pictures,  and 
queer  old  flutes,  with  an  air  of  displaying  them  for 
the  first  time  to  one  who  could  truly  appreciate. 
And  she  kept  thinking  of  that  saying,  "  Une  technique 
merveilleuse."  Her  instinct  apprehended  the  re- 
fined bone-viciousness  of  this  place,  where  nothing, 
save  perhaps  taste,  would  be  sacred.  It  was  her  first 
glimpse  into  that  gilt-edged  bohemia,  whence  the 
generosities,  the  elans,  the  struggles  of  the  true 
bohemia  are  as  rigidly  excluded  as  from  the  spheres 
where  bishops  moved.  But  she  talked  and  smiled; 
and  no  one  could  have  told  that  her  nerves  were 
crisping  as  if  at  contact  with  a  corpse.  While  show- 
ing her  those  alabaster  jars,  her  host  had  laid  his 
hand  softly  on  her  wrist,  and  in  taking  it  away,  he 
let  his  fingers,  with  a  touch  softer  than  a  kitten's 
paw,  ripple  over  the  skin,  then  put  them  to  his  lips. 
Ah,  there  it  was — the — the  technique  !  A  desperate 
desire  to  laugh  seized  her.  And  he  saw  it — oh,  yes, 
he  saw  it !  He  gave  her  one  look,  passed  that  same 
hand  over  his  smooth  face,  and — behold ! — it  showed 
as  before,  unmortified,  unconscious.  A  deadly  little 
man! 


ii4  BEYOND 

When  they  returned  to  the  salon,  as  it  was  called, 
Miss  Daphne  Wing  in  a  black  kimono,  whence  her 
face  and  arms  emerged  more  like  alabaster  than 
ever,  was  sitting  on  a  divan  beside  Fiorsen.  She 
rose  at  once  and  came  across  to  Gyp. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen" — why  did  everything  she  said 
begin  with  "Oh!"— "isn't  this  room  lovely?  It's 
perfect  for  dancing.  I  only  brought  cream,  and 
flame-colour;  they  go  so  beautifully  with  black." 

She  threw  back  her  kimono  for  Gyp  to  inspect 
her  dress — a  girdled  cream-coloured  shift,  which 
made  her  ivory  arms  and  neck  seem  more  than  ever 
dazzling;  and  her  mouth  opened,  as  if  for  a  sugar- 
plum of  praise.  Then,  lowering  her  voice,  she  mur- 
mured : 

"Do  you  know,  I'm  rather  afraid  of  Count  Rosek." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  he's  so  critical,  and  smooth, 
and  he  comes  up  so  quietly.  I  do  think  your  hus- 
band plays  wonderfully.  Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  you  are 
beautiful,  aren't  you?"  Gyp  laughed.  "What 
would  you  like  me  to  dance  first?  A  waltz  of 
Chopin's?" 

"Yes;  I  love  Chopin." 

"Then  I  shall.  I  shall  dance  exactly  what  you 
like,  because  I  do  admire  you,  and  I'm  sure  you're 
awfully  sweet.  Oh,  yes;  you  are;  I  can  see  that! 
And  I  think  your  husband's  awfully  in  love  with 
you.  I  should  be,  if  I  were  a  man.  You  know, 
I've  been  studying  five  years,  and  I  haven't  come 
out  yet.     But  now  Count  Rosek's  going  to  back 


BEYOND  115 

me,  I  expect  it'll  be  very  soon.  Will  you  come  to 
my  first  night  ?  Mother  says  I've  got  to  be  awfully 
careful.  She  only  let  me  come  this  evening  because 
you  were  going  to  be  here.  Would  you  like  me  to 
begin?" 

She  slid  across  to  Rosek,  and  Gyp  heard  her  say: 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen  wants  ihe  to  begin;  a  Chopin 
waltz,  please.     The  one  that  goes  like  this." 

Rosek  went  to  the  piano,  the  little  dancer  to  the 
centre  of  the  room.     Gyp  sat  down  beside  Fiorsen. 

Rosek  began  playing,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  girl, 
and  his  mouth  loosened  from  compression  in  a  sweet- 
ish smile.  Miss  Daphne  Wing  was  standing  with  her 
finger-tips  joined  at  her  breast — a  perfect  statue  of 
ebony  and  palest  wax.  Suddenly  she  flung  away 
the  black  kimono.  A  thrill  swept  Gyp  from  head 
to  foot.  She  could  dance — that  common  little  girl ! 
Every  movement  of  her  round,  sinuous  body,  of  her 
bare  limbs,  had  the  ecstasy  of  natural  genius,  con- 
trolled by  the  quivering  balance  of  a  really  fine 
training.  "A  dove  flying !"  So  she  was.  Her  face 
had  lost  its  vacancy,  or  rather  its  vacancy  had  be- 
come divine,  having  that  look — not  lost  but  gone 
before — which  dance  demands.  Yes,  she  was  a  gem, 
even  if  she  had  a  common  soul.  Tears  came  up  in 
Gyp's  eyes.  It  was  so  lovely — like  a  dove,  when  it 
flings  itself  up  in  the  wind,  breasting  on  up,  up — 
wings  bent  back,  poised.  Abandonment,  freedom — 
chastened,  shaped,  controlled ! 

When,  after  the  dance,  the  girl  came  and  sat  down 
beside  her,  she  squeezed  her  hot  little  hand,  but  the 


n6  BEYOND 

caress  was  for  her  art,  not  for  this  moist  little  per- 
son with  the  lips  avid  of  sugar-plums. 

"Oh,  did  you  like  it?  I'm  so  glad.  Shall  I  go 
and  put  on  my  flame-colour,  now?" 

The  moment  she  was  gone,  comment  broke  out 
freely.  The  dark  and  cynical  Gallant  thought  the 
girl's  dancing  like  a  certain  Napierkowska  whom  he 
had  seen  in  Moscow,  without  her  fire — the  touch  of 
passion  would  have  to  be  supplied.  She  wanted 
love !  Love !  And  suddenly  Gyp  was  back  in  the 
concert-hall,  listening  to  that  other  girl  singing  the 
song  of  a  broken  heart. 

"  Thy  kiss,  dear  love — ■ 
Like  watercress  gathered  fresh  from  cool  streams." 

Love!  in  this  abode — of  fauns'  heads,  deep 
cushions,  silver  dancing  girls!  Love!  She  had  a 
sudden  sense  of  deep  abasement.  What  was  she, 
herself,  but  just  a  feast  for  a  man's  senses?  Her 
home,  what  but  a  place  like  this?  Miss  Daphne 
Wing  was  back  again.  Gyp  looked  at  her  husband's 
face  while  she  was  dancing.  His  lips!  How  was 
it  that  she  could  see  that  disturbance  in  him,  and 
not  care  ?  If  she  had  really  loved  him,  to  see  his  lips 
like  that  would  have  hurt  her,  but  she  might  have 
understood  perhaps,  and  forgiven.  Now  she  neither 
quite  understood  nor  quite  forgave. 

And  that  night,  when  he  kissed  her,  she  mur- 
mured : 

"Would  you  rather  it  were  that  girl — not  me?" 


BEYOND  117 

"That  girl!  I  could  swallow  her  at  a  draft. 
But  you,  my  Gyp — I  want  to  drink  for  ever!" 

Was  that  true  ?  If  she  had  loved  him — how  good 
to  hear! 


After  this,  Gyp  was  daily  more  and  more  in  con- 
tact with  high  bohemia,  that  curious  composite  sec- 
tion of  society  which  embraces  the  neck  of  music, 
poetry,  and  the  drama.  She  was  a  success,  but 
secretly  she  felt  that  she  did  not  belong  to  it,  nor, 
in  truth,  did  Fiorsen,  who  was  much  too  genuine  a 
bohemian,  and  artist,  and  mocked  at  the  Gallants 
and  even  the  Roseks  of  this  life,  as  he  mocked  at 
Winton,  Aunt  Rosamund,  and  their  world.  Life 
with  him  had  certainly  one  effect  on  Gyp;  it  made 
her  feel  less  and  less  a  part  of  that  old  orthodox, 
well-bred  world  which  she  had  known  before  she 
married  him;  but  to  which  she  had  confessed  to 
Winton  she  had  never  felt  that  she  belonged, 
since  she  knew  the  secret  of  her  birth.  She  was,  in 
truth,  much  too  impressionable,  too  avid  of  beauty, 
and  perhaps  too  naturally  critical  to  accept  the  dic- 
tates of  their  fact-and-form-governed  routine;  only, 
of  her  own  accord,  she  would  never  have  had  initia- 
tive enough  to  step  out  of  its  circle.  Loosened  from 
those  roots,  unable  to  attach  herself  to  this  new  soil, 
and  not  spiritually  leagued  with  her  husband,  she 
was  more  and  more  lonely.  Her  only  truly  happy 
hours  were  those  spent  with  Winton  or  at  her  piano 
or  with  her  puppies.  She  was  always  wondering  at 
what  she  had  done,  longing  to  find  the  deep,  the 

118 


BEYOND  119 

sufficient  reason  for  having  done  it.  But  the  more 
she  sought  and  longed,  the  deeper  grew  her  bewilder- 
ment, her  feeling  of  being  in  a  cage.  Of  late,  too, 
another  and  more  definite  uneasiness  had  come  to 
her. 

She  spent  much  time  in  her  garden,  where  the 
blossoms  had  all  dropped,  lilac  was  over,  acacias 
coming  into  bloom,  and  blackbirds  silent. 

Winton,  who,  by  careful  experiment,  had  found 
that  from  half -past  three  to  six  there  was  little  or 
no  chance  of  stumbling  across  his  son-in-law,  came 
in  nearly  every  day  for  tea  and  a  quiet  cigar  on  the 
lawn.  He  was  sitting  there  with  Gyp  one  after- 
noon, when  Betty,  who  usurped  the  functions  of 
parlour-maid  whenever  the  whim  moved  her,  brought 
out  a  card  on  which  were  printed  the  words,  "Miss 
Daphne  Wing." 

"Bring  her  out,  please,  Betty  dear,  and  some 
fresh  tea,  and  buttered  toast — plenty  of  buttered 
toast;  yes,  and  the  chocolates,  and  any  other  sweets 
there  are,  Betty  darling." 

Betty,  with  that  expression  which  always  came 
over  her  when  she  was  called  "darling,"  withdrew 
across  the  grass,  and  Gyp  said  to  her  father: 

"It's  the  little  dancer  I  told  you  of,  Dad.  Now 
you'll  see  something  perfect.  Only,  she'll  be  dressed. 
It's  a  pity." 

She  was.  The  occasion  had  evidently  exercised 
her  spirit.  In  warm  ivory,  shrouded  by  leaf-green 
chiffon,  with  a  girdle  of  tiny  artificial  leaves,  and 
a   lightly  covered  head  encircled  by   other  green 


120  BEYOND 

leaves,  she  was  somewhat  like  a  nymph  peering 
from  a  bower.  If  rather  too  arresting,  it  was  charm- 
ing, and,  after  all,  no  frock  could  quite  disguise 
the  beauty  of  her  figure.  She  was  evidently 
nervous. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  I  thought  you  wouldn't 
mind  my  coming.  I  did  so  want  to  see  you  again. 
Count  Rosek  said  he  thought  I  might.  It's  all 
fixed  for  my  coming-out.  Oh,  how  do  you  do?" 
And  with  lips  and  eyes  opening  at  Winton,  she  sat 
down  in  the  chair  he  placed  for  her.  Gyp,  watch- 
ing his  expression,  felt  inclined  to  laugh.  Dad, 
and  Daphne  Wing !  And  the  poor  girl  so  evidently 
anxious  to  make  a  good  impression !  Presently 
she  asked : 

"Have  you  been  dancing  at  Count  Rosek's  again 
lately?" 

"Oh,  yes,  haven't  you — didn't  you — I — "  And 
she  stopped. 

The  thought  flashed  through  Gyp,  'So  Gustav's 
been  seeing  her,  and  hasn't  told  me!'  But  she 
said  at  once: 

"Ah,  yes,  of  course;  I  forgot.  When  is  the  night 
of  your  coming-out?" 

"Next  Friday  week.  Fancy!  The  Octagon. 
Isn't  it  splendid?  They've  given  me  such  a  good 
engagement.  I  do  so  want  you  and  Mr.  Fiorsen 
to  come,  though!" 

Gyp,  smiling,  murmured: 

"Of  course  we  will.  My  father  loves  dancing, 
too;  don't  you,  Dad?" 


BEYOND  121 

Winton  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth. 

"When  it's  good,"  he  said,  urbanely. 

"Oh,  mine  is  good;  isn't  it,  Mrs.  Fiorsen?  I 
mean,  I  have  worked — ever  since  I  was  thirteen, 
you  know.  I  simply  love  it.  I  think  you  would 
dance  beautifully,  Mrs.  Fiorsen.  You've  got  such 
a  perfect  figure.    I  simply  love  to  see  you  walk." 

Gyp  flushed,  and  said: 

"Do  have  one  of  these,  Miss  Wing — they've  got 
whole  raspberries  inside." 

The  little'  dancer  put  one  in  her  mouth. 

"  Oh,  but  please  don't  call  me  Miss  Wing !  I  wish 
you'd  call  me  Daphne.     Mr.  Fior — everybody  does." 

Conscious  of  her  father's  face,  Gyp  murmured: 

"It's  a  lovely  name.  Won't  you  have  another? 
These  are  apricot." 

"They're  perfect.  You  know,  my  first  dress  is 
going  to  be  all  orange-blossom;  Mr.  Fiorsen  sug- 
gested that.  But  I  expect  he  told  you.  Perhaps 
you  suggested  it  really;  did  you?"  Gyp  shook 
her  head.  "Count  Rosek  says  the  world  is  waiting 
for  me — "  She  paused  with  a  sugar-plum  half- 
way to  her  lips,  and  added  doubtfully:  "Do  you 
think  that's  true?" 

Gyp  answered  with  a  soft:    "I  hope  so." 

"He  says  I'm  something  new.  It  would  be  nice 
to  think  that.  He  has  great  taste;  so  has  Mr.  Fior- 
sen, hasn't  he?" 

Conscious  of  the  compression  in  the  lips  behind 
the  smoke  of  her  father's  cigar,  and  with  a  sudden 
longing  to  get  up  and  walk  away,  Gyp  nodded. 


122  BEYOND 

The  little  dancer  placed  the  sweet  in  her  mouth, 
and  said  complacently: 

"Of  course  he  has;    because  he  married  you." 

Then,  seeming  to  grow  conscious  of  Winton's 
eyes  fixed  so  intently  on  her,  she  became  confused, 
swallowed  hastily,  and  said: 

"Oh,  isn't  it  lovely  here — like  the  country!  I'm 
afraid  I  must  go;  it's  my  practice- time.  It's  so 
important  for  me  not  to  miss  any  now,  isn't  it?" 
And  she  rose. 

Winton  got  up,  too.  Gyp  saw  the  girl's  eyes, 
lighting  on  his  rigid  hand,  grow  round  and  rounder; 
and  from  her,  walking  past  the  side  of  the  house, 
the  careful  voice  floated  back: 

"Oh,  I  do  hope — "  But  what,  could  not  be 
heard. 

Sinking  back  in  her  chair,  Gyp  sat  motionless. 
Bees  were  murmurous  among  her  flowers,  pigeons 
murmurous  among  the  trees;  the  sunlight  warmed 
her  knees,  and  her  stretched-out  feet  through  the 
openwork  of  her  stockings.  The  maid's  laughter, 
the  delicious  growling  of  the  puppies  at  play  in  the 
kitchen  came  drifting  down  the  garden,  with  the 
distant  cry  of  a  milkman  up  the  road.  All  was 
very  peaceful.  But  in  her  heart  were  such  curious, 
baffled  emotions,  such  strange,  tangled  feelings. 
This  moment  of  enlightenment  regarding  the  meas- 
ure of  her  husband's  frankness  came  close  on  the 
heels  of  the  moment  fate  had  chosen  for  another 
revelation,  for  clinching  within  her  a  fear  felt  for 
weeks  past.    She  had  said  to  Winton  that  she  did 


BEYOND  123 

not  want  to  have  a  child.  In  those  conscious  that 
their  birth  has  caused  death  or  even  too  great  suf- 
fering, there  is  sometimes  this  hostile  instinct. 
She  had  not  even  the  consolation  that  Fiorsen  wanted 
children;  she  knew  that  he  did  not.  And  now  she 
was  sure  one  was  coming.  But  it  was  more  than 
that.  She  had  not  reached,  and  knew  she  could 
not  reach,  that  point  of  spirit-union  which  alone 
makes  marriage  sacred,  and  the  sacrifices  demanded 
by  motherhood  a  joy.  She  was  fairly  caught  in 
the  web  of  her  foolish  and  presumptuous  mistake ! 
So  few  months  of  marriage — and  so  sure  that  it 
was  a  failure,  so  hopeless  for  the  future !  In  the 
light  of  this  new  certainty,  it  was  terrifying.  A 
hard,  natural  fact  is  needed  to  bring  a  yearning  and 
bewildered  spirit  to  knowledge  of  the  truth.  Dis- 
illusionment is  not  welcome  to  a  woman's  heart; 
the  less  welcome  when  it  is  disillusionment  with  self 
as  much  as  with  another.  Her  great  dedication — 
her  scheme  of  life !  She  had  been  going  to — what  ? 
— save  Fiorsen  from  himself !  It  was  laughable. 
She  had  only  lost  herself.  Already  she  felt  in  prison, 
and  by  a  child  would  be  all  the  more  bound.  To 
some  women,  the  knowledge  that  a  thing  must 
be  brings  assuagement  of  the  nerves.  Gyp  was 
the  opposite  of  those.  To  force  her  was  the  way 
to  stiver  up  every  contrary  emotion.  She  might 
will  herself  to  acquiesce,  but — one  cannot  change 
one's  nature. 

And  so,  while  the  pigeons  cooed  and  the  sunlight 
warmed  her  feet,  she  spent  the  bitterest  moments 


124  BEYOND 

of  her  life — so  far.  Pride  came  to  her  help.  She 
had  made  a  miserable  mess  of  it,  but  no  one  must 
know — certainly  not  her  father,  who  had  warned 
her  so  desperately !  She  had  made  her  bed,  and 
she  would  have  to  lie  on  it. 

When  Winton  came  back,  he  found  her  smiling, 
and  said: 

"I  don't  see  the  fascination,  Gyp." 

"Don't  you  think  her  face  really  rather  perfect?" 

"Common." 

"Yes;   but  that  drops  off  when  she's  dancing." 

Winton  looked  at  her  from  under  half-closed 
eyelids. 

"With  her  clothes?  What  does  Fiorsen  think 
of  her?" 

Gyp  smiled. 

"Does  he  think  of  her?    I  don't  know." 

She  could  feel  the  watchful  tightening  of  his 
face.    And  suddenly  he  said: 

"  Daphne  Wing !    By  George ! " 

The  words  were  a  masterpiece  of  resentment 
and  distrust.  His  daughter  in  peril  from — such 
as  that ! 

After  he  was  gone  Gyp  sat  on  till  the  sun  had  quite 
vanished  and  the  dew  was  stealing  through  her  thin 
frock.  She  would  think  of  anything,  anybody  ex- 
cept herself!  To  make  others  happy  was  the  way 
to  be  happy — or  so  they  said.  She  would  try — 
must  try.  Betty — so  stout,  and  with  that  rheuma- 
tism in  her  leg — did  she  ever  think  of  herself?  Or 
Aunt  Rosamund,  with  her  perpetual  rescuings  of 


BEYOND  125 

lost  dogs,  lame  horses,  and  penniless  musicians? 
And  Dad,  for  all  his  man-of-the-world  ways,  was 
he  not  always  doing  little  things  for  the  men  of  his 
old  regiment,  always  thinking  of  her,  too,  and 
what  he  could  do  to  give  her  pleasure?  To  love 
everybody,  and  bring  them  happiness !  Was  it 
not  possible?  Only,  people  were  hard  to  love, 
different  from  birds  and  beasts  and  flowers,  to 
love  which  seemed  natural  and  easy. 

She  went  up  to  her  room  and  began  to  dress  for 
dinner.  Which  of  her  frocks  did  he  like  best  ?  The 
pale,  low-cut  amber,  or  that  white,  soft  one,  with 
the  coffee-dipped  lace?  She  decided  on  the  latter. 
Scrutinizing  her  supple,  slender  image  in  the  glass, 
a  shudder  went  through  her.  That  would  all  go; 
she  would  be  like  those  women  taking  careful  exer- 
cise in  the  streets,  who  made  her  wonder  at  their 
hardihood  in  showing  themselves.  It  wasn't  fair 
that  one  must  become  unsightly,  offensive  to  the 
eye,  in  order  to  bring  life  into  the  world.  Some 
women  seemed  proud  to  be  like  that.  How  was 
that  possible?  She  would  never  dare  to  show  her- 
self in  the  days  coming. 

She  finished  dressing  and  went  downstairs.  It 
was  nearly  eight,  and  Fiorsen  had  not  come  in. 
When  the  gong  was  struck,  she  turned  from  the 
window  with  a  sigh,  and  went  in  to  dinner.  That 
sigh  had  been  relief.  She  ate  her  dinner  with  the 
two  pups  beside  her,  sent  them  off,  and  sat  down 
at  her  piano.  She  played  Chopin — studies,  waltzes, 
mazurkas,  preludes,  a  polonaise  or  two.    And  Betty, 


126  BEYOND 

who  had  a  weakness  for  that  composer,  sat  on  a 
chair  by  the  door  which  partitioned  off  the  back 
premises,  having  opened  it  a  little.  She  wished 
she  could  go  and  take  a  peep  at  her  "pretty"  in 
her  white  frock,  with  the  candle-flames  on  each 
side,  and  those  lovely  lilies  in  the  vase  close  by, 
smelling  beautiful.  And  one  of  the  maids  coming 
too  near,  she  shooed  her  angrily  away. 

It  grew  late.  The  tray  had  been  brought  up; 
the  maids  had  gone  to  bed.  Gyp  had  long  stopped 
playing,  had  turned  out,  ready  to  go  up,  and,  by 
the  French  window,  stood  gazing  out  into  the  dark. 
How  warm  it  was — warm  enough  to  draw  forth 
the  scent  of  the  jessamine  along  the  garden  wall ! 
Not  a  star.  There  always  seemed  so  few  stars  in 
London.  A  sound  made  her  swing  round.  Some- 
thing tall  was  over  there  in  the  darkness,  by  the 
open  door.  She  heard  a  sigh,  and  called  out,  fright- 
ened: 

"Is  that  you,  Gustav?" 

He  spoke  some  words  that  she  could  not  under- 
stand. Shutting  the  window  quickly,  she  went 
toward  him.  Light  from  the  hall  lit  up  one  side 
of  his  face  and  figure.  He  was  pale;  his  eyes  shone 
strangely;  his  sleeve  was  all  white.  He  said 
thickly: 

"Little  ghost!"  and  then  some  words  that  must 
be  Swedish.  It  was  the  first  time  Gyp  had  ever 
come  to  close  quarters  with  drunkenness.  And 
her  thought  was  simply:  'How  awful  if  anybody 
were  to  see — how  awful ! '      She  made  a  rush  to 


BEYOND  127 

get  into  the  hall  and  lock  the  door  leading  to  the 
back  regions,  but  he  caught  her  frock,  ripping  the 
lace  from  her  neck,  and  his  entangled  fingers 
clutched  her  shoulder.  She  stopped  dead,  fearing 
to  make  a  noise  or  pull  him  over,  and  his  other 
hand  clutched  her  other  shoulder,  so  that  he  stood 
steadying  himself  by  her.  Why  was  she  not  shocked, 
smitten  to  the  ground  with  grief  and  shame  and 
rage?  She  only  felt:  "What  am  I  to  do?  How 
get  him  upstairs  without  anyone  knowing?"  And 
she  looked  up  into  his  face — it  seemed  to  her  so 
pathetic  with  its  shining  eyes  and  its  staring  white- 
ness that  she  could  have  burst  into  tears.  She  said 
gently : 

"  Gustav,  it's  all  right.    Lean  on  me ;  we'll  go  up." 

His  hands,  that  seemed  to  have  no  power  or 
purpose,  touched  her  cheeks,  mechanically  caress- 
ing. More  than  disgust,  she  felt  that  awful  pity. 
Putting  her  arm  round  his  waist,  she  moved  with 
him  toward  the  stairs.  If  only  no  one  heard;  if 
only  she  could  get  him  quietly  up !  And  she  mur- 
mured : 

"Don't  talk;  you're  not  well.  Lean  on  me 
hard." 

He  seemed  to  make  a  big  effort;  his  lips  puffed 
out,  and  with  an  expression  of  pride  that  would 
have  been  comic  if  not  so  tragic,  he  muttered  some- 
thing. 

Holding  him  close  with  all  her  strength,  as  she 
might  have  held  one  desperately  loved,  she  began 
to  mount.     It  was  easier  than  she  had  thought. 


128  BEYOND 

Only  across  the  landing  now,  into  the  bedroom,  and 
then  the  danger  would  be  over.  Done !  He  was 
lying  across  the  bed,  and  the  door  shut.  Then, 
for  a  moment,  she  gave  way  to  a  fit  of  shivering  so 
violent  that  she  could  hear  her  teeth  chattering 
yet  could  not  stop  them.  She  caught  sight  of  her- 
self in  the  big  mirror.  Her  pretty  lace  was  all  torn; 
her  shoulders  were  red  where  his  hands  had  gripped 
her,  holding  himself  up.  She  threw  off  her  dress, 
put  on  a  wrapper,  and  went  up  to  him.  He  was 
lying  in  a  sort  of  stupor,  and  with  difficulty  she 
got  him  to  sit  up  and  lean  against  the  bed-rail. 
Taking  off  his  tie  and  collar,  she  racked  her  brains 
for  what  to  give  him.  Sal  volatile!  Surely  that 
must  be  right.  It  brought  him  to  himself,  so  that 
he  even  tried  to  kiss  her.  At  last  he  was  in  bed, 
and  she  stood  looking  at  him.  His  eyes  were  closed; 
he  would  not  see  if  she  gave  way  now.  But  she 
would  not  cry — she  would  not.  One  sob  came — 
but  that  was  all.  Well,  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  now  but  get  into  bed  too.  She  undressed, 
and  turned  out  the  light.  He  was  in  a  stertorous 
sleep.  And  lying  there,  with  eyes  wide  open,  star- 
ing into  the  dark,  a  smile  came  on  her  lips — a  very 
strange  smile !  She  was  thinking  of  all  those  pre- 
posterous young  wives  she  had  read  of,  who,  blush- 
ing, trembling,  murmur  into  the  ears  of  their  young 
husbands  that  they  "have  something — something 
to  tell  them!" 


VI 


Looking  at  Fiorsen,  next  morning,  still  sunk  in 
heavy  sleep,  her  first  thought  was:  'He  looks  ex- 
actly the  same.'  And,  suddenly,  it  seemed  queer 
to  her  that  she  had  not  been,  and  still  was  not,  dis- 
gusted. It  was  all  too  deep  for  disgust,  and  some- 
how, too  natural.  She  took  this  new  revelation  of 
his  unbridled  ways  without  resentment.  Besides, 
she  had  long  known  of  this  taste  of  his — one  cannot 
drink  brandy  and  not  betray  it. 

She  stole  noiselessly  from  bed,  noiselessly 
gathered  up  his  boots  and  clothes  all  tumbled  on  to 
a  chair,  and  took  them  forth  to  the  dressing-room. 
There  she  held  the  garments  up  to  the  early  light 
and  brushed  them,  then,  noiseless,  stole  back  to 
bed,  with  needle  and  thread  and  her  lace.  No  one 
must  know;  not  even  he  must  know.  For  the  mo- 
ment she  had  forgotten  that  other  thing  so  ter- 
rifically important.  It  came  back  to  her,  very 
sudden,  very  sickening.  So  long  as  she  could  keep 
it  secret,  no  one  should  know  that  either — he  least 
of  all. 

The  morning  passed  as  usual;  but  when  she 
came  to  the  music-room  at  noon,  she  found  that 
he  had  gone  out.  She  was  just  sitting  down  to 
lunch  when  Betty,  with  the  broad  smile  which  pre- 

129 


130  BEYOND 

vailed  on  her  moon-face  when  someone  had  tickled 
the  right  side  of  her,  announced: 

"  Count  Rosek." 

Gyp  got  up,  startled. 

"Say  that  Mr.  Fiorsen  is  not  in,  Betty.  But — 
but  ask  if  he  will  come  and  have  some  lunch,  and 
get  a  bottle  of  hock  up,  please." 

In  the  few  seconds  before  her  visitor  appeared, 
Gyp  experienced  the  sort  of  excitement  one  has 
entering  a  field  where  a  bull  is  grazing. 

But  not  even  his  severest  critics  could  accuse 
Rosek  of  want  of  tact.  He  had  hoped  to  see  Gustav, 
but  it  was  charming  of  her  to  give  him  lunch — a 
great  delight ! 

He  seemed  to  have  put  off,  as  if  for  her  benefit, 
his  corsets,  and  some,  at  all  events,  of  his  offending 
looks — seemed  simpler,  more  genuine.  His  face 
was  slightly  browned,  as  if,  for  once,  he  had  been 
taking  his  due  of  air  and  sun.  He  talked  without 
cynical  submeanings,  was  most  appreciative  of  her 
"charming  little  house,"  and  even  showed  some 
warmth  in  his  sayings  about  art  and  music.  Gyp 
had  never  disliked  him  less.  But  her  instincts  were 
on  the  watch.  After  lunch,  they  went  out  across 
the  garden  to  see  the  music-room,  and  he  sat  down 
at  the  piano.  He  had  the  deep,  caressing  touch 
that  lies  in  ringers  of  steel  worked  by  a  real  passion 
for  tone.  Gyp  sat  on  the  divan  and  listened.  She 
was  out  of  his  sight  there;  and  she  looked  at  him, 
wondering.  He  was  playing  Schumann's  Child 
Music.     How  could  one  who  produced  such  fresh 


BEYOND  131 

idyllic  sounds  have  sinister  intentions?  And  pres- 
ently she  said: 

"Count  Rosek!" 

"Madame?" 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  why  you  sent  Daphne 
Wing  here  yesterday  ?  " 

"/send  her?" 

"Yes." 

But  instantly  she  regretted  having  asked  that 
question.  He  had  swung  round  on  the  music-stool 
and  was  looking  full  at  her.    His  face  had  changed. 

"Since  you  ask  me,  I  thought  you  should  know 
that  Gustav  is  seeing  a  good  deal  of  her." 

He  had  given  the  exact  answer  she  had  divined. 

"Do  you  think  I  mind  that?" 

A  flicker  passed  over  his  face.  He  got  up  and 
said  quietly: 

"I  am  glad  that  you  do  not." 

"Why  glad?" 

She,  too,  had  risen.  Though  he  was  little  taller 
than  herself,  she  was  conscious  suddenly  of  how 
thick  and  steely  he  was  beneath  his  dapper  gar- 
ments, and  of  a  kind  of  snaky  will-power  in  his 
face.    Her  heart  beat  faster. 

He  came  toward  her  and  said: 

"I  am  glad  you  understand  that  it  is  over  with 
Gustav — finished — "  He  stopped  dead,  seeing  at 
once  that  he  had  gone  wrong,  and  not  knowing 
quite  where.  Gyp  had  simply  smiled.  A  flush 
coloured  his  cheeks,  and  he  said: 

"He  is  a  volcano  soon  extinguished.     You  see, 


132  BEYOND 

I  know  him.  Better  you  should  know  him,  too. 
Why  do  you  smile?" 

"Why  is  it  better  I  should  know?" 

He  went  very  pale,  and  said  between  his  teeth: 

"That  you  may  not  waste  your  time;  there  is 
love  waiting  for  you." 

But  Gyp  still  smiled. 

"Was  it  from  love  of  me  that  you  made  him 
drunk  last  night?" 

His  lips  quivered. 

"  Gyp ! "  Gyp  turned.  But  with  the  merest 
change  of  front,  he  had  put  himself  between  her 
and  the  door.  "  You  never  loved  him.  That  is  my 
excuse.  You  have  given  him  too  much  already — 
more  than  he  is  worth.  Ah !  God !  I  am  tortured 
by  you;  I  am  possessed." 

He  had  gone  white  through  and  through  like  a 
flame,  save  for  his  smouldering  eyes.  She  was 
afraid,  and  because  she  was  afraid,  she  stood  her 
ground.  Should  she  make  a  dash  for  the  door  that 
opened  into  the  little  lane  and  escape  that  way? 
Then  suddenly  he  seemed  to  regain  control;  but  she 
could  feel  that  he  was  trying  to  break  through  her 
defences  by  the  sheer  intensity  of  his  gaze — by  a 
kind  of  mesmerism,  knowing  that  he  had  frightened 
her. 

Under  the  strain  of  this  duel  of  eyes,  she  felt  her- 
self beginning  to  sway,  to  get  diz2y.  Whether  or 
no  he  really  moved  his  feet,  he  seemed  coming  closer 
inch  by  inch.  She  had  a  horrible  feeling — as  if  his 
arms  were  already  round  her. 


BEYOND  133 

With  an  effort,  she  wrenched  her  gaze  from  his, 
and  suddenly  his  crisp  hair  caught  her  eyes.  Surely 
— surely  it  was  curled  with  tongs !  A  kind  of  spasm 
of  amusement  was  set  free  in  her  heart,  and,  almost 
inaudibly,  the  words  escaped  her  lips:  "Une  tech- 
nique merveilleuse  I '"  His  eyes  wavered;  he  uttered 
a  little  gasp;  his  lips  fell  apart.  Gyp  walked  across 
the  room  and  put  her  hand  on  the  bell.  She  had 
lost  her  fear.  Without  a  word,  he  turned,  and  went 
out  into  the  garden.  She  watched  him  cross  the 
lawn.  Gone !  She  had  beaten  him  by  the  one  thing 
not  even  violent  passions  can  withstand — ridicule, 
almost  unconscious  ridicule.  Then  she  gave  way 
and  pulled  the  bell  with  nervous  violence.  The 
sight  of  the  maid,  in  her  trim  black  dress  and  spot- 
less white  apron,  coming  from  the  house  completed 
her  restoration.  Was  it  possible  that  she  had  really 
been  frightened,  nearly  failing  in  that  encounter, 
nearly  dominated  by  that  man — in  her  own  house, 
with  her  own  maids  down  there  at  hand  ?  And  she 
said  quietly: 

"I  want  the  puppies,  please." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

Over  the  garden,  the  day  brooded  in  the  first- 
gathered  warmth  of  summer.  Mid- June  of  a  fine 
year.     The  air  was  drowsy  with  hum  and  scent. 

And  Gyp,  sitting  in  the  shade,  while  the  puppies 
rolled  and  snapped,  searched  her  little  world  for 
comfort  and  some  sense  of  safety,  and  could  not 
find  it;  as  if  there  were  all  round  her  a  hot  heavy 
fog  in  which  things  lurked,  and  where  she  kept  erect 


134  BEYOND 

only  by  pride  and  the  will  not  to  cry  out  that  she 
was  struggling  and  afraid. 

Fiorsen,  leaving  his  house  that  morning,  had 
walked  till  he  saw  a  taxi-cab.  Leaning  back  therein, 
with  hat  thrown  off,  he  caused  himself  to  be  driven 
rapidly,  at  random.  This  was  one  of  his  habits 
when  his  mind  was  not  at  ease — an  expensive  idio- 
syncracy,  ill-afforded  by  a  pocket  that  had  holes. 
The  swift  motion  and  titillation  by  the  perpetual 
close  shaving  of  other  vehicles  were  sedative  to  him. 
He  needed  sedatives  this  morning.  To  wake  in  his 
own  bed  without  the  least  remembering  how  he  had 
got  there  was  no  more  new  to  him  than  to  many 
another  man  of  twenty-eight,  but  it  was  new  since 
his  marriage.  If  he  had  remembered  even  less  he 
would  have  been  more  at  ease.  But  he  could  just 
recollect  standing  in  the  dark  drawing-room,  seeing 
and  touching  a  ghostly  Gyp  quite  close  to  him. 
And,  somehow,  he  was  afraid.  And  when  he  was 
afraid — like  most  people — he  was  at  his  worst. 

If  she  had  been  like  all  the  other  women  in  whose 
company  he  had  eaten  passion-fruit,  he  would  not 
have  felt  this  carking  humiliation.  If  she  had  been 
like  them,  at  the  pace  he  had  been  going  since  he 
obtained  possession  of  her,  he  would  already  have 
"  finished,"  as  Rosek  had  said.  And  he  knew  well 
enough  that  he  had  not  "finished."  He  might  get 
drunk,  might  be  loose-ended  in  every  way,  but  Gyp 
was  hooked  into  his  senses,  and,  for  all  that  he  could 
not  get  near  her,  into  his  spirit.     Her  very  passivity 


BEYOND  135 

was  her  strength,  the  secret  of  her  magnetism.  In 
her,  he  felt  some  of  that  mysterious  sentiency  of 
nature,  which,  even  in  yieldir%  to  man's  fevers,  lies 
apart  with  a  faint  smile — the  uncapturable  smile  of 
the  woods  and  fields  by  day  or  night,  that  makes 
one  ache  with  longing.  He  felt  in  her  some  of  the 
unfathomable,  soft,  vibrating  indifference  of  the 
flowers  and  trees  and  streams,  of  the  rocks,  of  bird- 
songs,  and  the  eternal  hum,  under  sunshine  or  star- 
shine.  Her  dark,  half-smiling  eyes  enticed  him,  in- 
spired an  unquenchable  thirst.  And  his  was  one  of 
those  natures  which,  encountering  spiritual  diffi- 
culty, at  once  jib  off,  seek  anodynes,  try  to  bandage 
wounded  egoism  with  excess — a  spoiled  child,  with 
the  desperations  and  the  inherent  pathos,  the  some- 
thing repulsive  and  the  something  lovable  that  be- 
long to  all  such.  Having  wished  for  this  moon, 
and  got  her,  he  now  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
her,  kept  taking  great  bites  at  her,  with  a  feeling  all 
the  time  of  getting  further  and  further  away.  At 
moments,  he  desired  revenge  for  his  failure  to  get 
near  her  spiritually,  and  was  ready  to  commit  fol- 
lies of  all  kinds.  He  was  only  kept  in  control  at 
all  by  his  work.  For  he  did  work  hard;  though, 
even  there,  something  was  lacking.  He  had  all  the 
qualities  of  making  good,  except  the  moral  back- 
bone holding  them  together,  which  alone  could  give 
him  his  rightful — as  he  thought — pre-eminence.  It 
often  surprised  and  vexed  him  to  find  that  some 
contemporary  held  higher  rank  than  himself. 
Threading  the  streets  in  his  cab,  he  mused : 


136  BEYOND 

"Did  I  do  anything  that  really  shocked  her  last 
night?  Why  didn't  I  wait  for  her  this  morning  and 
find  out  the  worst?"  And  his  lips  twisted  awry — 
for  to  find  out  the  worst  was  not  his  forte.  Medita- 
tion, seeking  as  usual  a  scapegoat,  lighted  on  Rosek. 
Like  most  egoists  addicted  to  women,  he  had  not 
many  friends.  Rosek  was  the  most  constant.  But 
even  for  him,  Fiorsen  had  at  once  the  contempt  and 
fear  that  a  man  naturally  uncontrolled  and  yet  of 
greater  scope  has  for  one  of  less  talent  but  stronger 
will-power.  He  had  for  him,  too,  the  feeling  of  a 
wayward  child  for  its  nurse,  mixed  with  the  need 
that  an  artist,  especially  an  executant  artist,  feels 
for  a  connoisseur  and  patron  with  well-lined  pockets. 

'Curse  Paul!'  he  thought.  'He  must  know — 
he  does  know — that  brandy  of  his  goes  down  like 
water.  Trust  him,  he  saw  I  was  getting  silly !  He 
had  some  game  on.  Where  did  I  go  after?  How 
did  I  get  home?'  And  again:  'Did  I  hurt  Gyp?* 
If  the  servants  had  seen — that  would  be  the  worst; 
that  would  upset  her  fearfully!  And  he  laughed. 
Then  he  had  a  fresh  access  of  fear.  He  didn't  know 
her,  never  knew  what  she  was  thinking  or  feeling, 
never  knew  anything  about  her.  And  he  thought 
angrily:  'That's  not  fair !  I  don't  hide  myself  from 
her.  I  am  as  free  as  nature;  I  let  her  see  everything. 
What  did  I  do  ?  That  maid  looked  very  queerly  at 
me  this  morning!'  And  suddenly  he  said  to  the 
driver:  "Bury  Street,  St.  James's."  He  could  find 
out,  at  all  events,  whether  Gyp  had  been  to  her 
father's.    The  thought  of  Win  ton  ever  afflicted  him; 


BEYOND  137 

and  he  changed  his  mind  several  times  before  the 
cab  reached  that  little  street,  but  so  swiftly  that  he 
had  not  time  to  alter  his  instructions  to  the  driver. 
A  light  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead  while  he 
was  waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened. 

"Mrs.  Fiorsen  here?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Not  been  here  this  morning?" 

"No,  sir." 

He  shrugged  away  the  thought  that  he  ought  to 
give  some  explanation  of  his  question,  and  got  into 
the  cab  again,  telling  the  man  to  drive  to  Curzon 
Street.  If  she  had  not  been  to  "that  Aunt  Rosa- 
mund" either  it  would  be  all  right.  She  had  not. 
There  was  no  one  else  she  would  go  to.  And,  with 
a  sigh  of  relief,  he  began  to  feel  hungry,  having  had 
no  breakfast.  He  would  go  to  Rosek's,  borrow  the 
money  to  pay  his  cab,  and  lunch  there.  But  Rosek 
was  not  in.  He  would  have  to  go  home  to  get  the 
cab  paid.  The  driver  seemed  to  eye  him  queerly 
now,  as  though  conceiving  doubts  about  the  fare. 

Going  in  under  the  trellis,  Fiorsen  passed  a  man 
coming  out,  who  held  in  his  hand  a  long  envelope 
and  eyed  him  askance. 

Gyp,  who  was  sitting  at  her  bureau,  seemed  to  be 
adding  up  the  counterfoils  in  her  cheque-book.  She 
did  not  turn  round,  and  Fiorsen  paused.  How  was 
she  going  to  receive  him  ? 

"Is  there  any  lunch?"  he  said. 

She  reached  out  and  rang  the  bell.  He  felt  sorry 
for  himself.     He  had  been  quite  ready  to  take  her 


138  BEYOND 

in  his  arms  and  say:  "Forgive  me,  little  Gyp;  I'm 
sorry!" 

Betty  answered  the  bell. 

"Please  bring  up  some  lunch  for  Mr.  Fiorsen." 

He  heard  the  stout  woman  sniff  as  she  went  out. 
She  was  a  part  of  his  ostracism.  And,  with  sudden 
rage,  he  said: 

"What  do  you  want  for  a  husband — a  bourgeois 
who  would  die  if  he  missed  his  lunch?" 

Gyp  turned  round  to  him  and  held  out  her  cheque- 
book. 

"I  don't  in  the  least  mind  about  meals;  but  I  do 
about  this."    He  read  on  the  counterfoil: 

"Messrs.  Travers  &  Sanborn,  Tailors,  Account 
rendered:  £54  3s.  7d."  "Are  there  many  of  these, 
Gustav?" 

Fiorsen  had  turned  the  peculiar  white  that  marked 
deep  injury  to  his  self-esteem.    He  said  violently: 

"Well,  what  of  that?  A  bill !  Did  you  pay  it? 
You  have  no  business  to  pay  my  bills." 

"The  man  said  if  it  wasn't  paid  this  time,  he'd 
sue  you."  Her  lips  quivered.  "I  think  owing 
money  is  horrible.  It's  undignified.  Are  there 
many  others?    Please  tell  me ! " 

"  I  shall  not  tell  you.    What  is  it  to  you  ?  " 

"It  is  a  lot  to  me.  I  have  to  keep  this  house  and 
pay  the  maids  and  everything,  and  I  want  to  know 
how  I  stand.  I  am  not  going  to  make  debts. 
That's  hateful." 

Her  face  had  a  hardness  that  he  did  not  know. 
He  perceived  dimly  that  she  was  different  from  the 


BEYOND  139 

Gyp  of  this  hour  yesterday — the  last  time  when,  in 
possession  of  his  senses,  he  had  seen  or  spoken  to 
her.  The  novelty  of  her  revolt  stirred  him  in 
strange  ways,  wounded  his  self-conceit,  inspired  a 
curious  fear,  and  yet  excited  his  senses.  He  came 
up  to  her,  said  softly: 

"Money!  Curse  money!  Kiss  me!"  With  a 
certain  amazement  at  the  sheer  distaste  in  her  face, 
he  heard  her  say: 

"It's  childish  to  curse  money.  I  will  spend  all 
the  income  I  have;  but  I  will  not  spend  more,  and  I 
will  not  ask  Dad." 

He  flung  himself  down  in  a  chair. 

"Ho!    Ho!    Virtue!" 

"No— pride." 

He  said  gloomily: 

"So  you  don't  believe  in  me.  You  don't  believe 
I  can  earn  as  much  as  I  want — more  than  you  have 
— any  time?    You  never  have  believed  in  me." 

"I  think  you  earn  now  as  much  as  you  are  ever 
likely  to  earn." 

"That  is  what  you  think!  I  don't  want  money 
— your  money!  I  can  live  on  nothing,  any  time. 
I  have  done  it — often." 

"Hssh!" 

He  looked  round  and  saw  the  maid  in  the  door- 
way. 

"Please,  sir,  the  driver  says  can  he  have  his  fare, 
or  do  you  want  him  again?     Twelve  shillings." 

Fiorsen  stared  at  her  a  moment  in  the  way  that 
■ — as  the  maid  often  said — made  you  feel  like  a  silly. 


i4o  BEYOND 

"No.    Pay  him." 

The  girl  glanced  at  Gyp,  answered:  "Yes,  sir," 
and  went  out. 

Fiorsen  laughed;  he  laughed,  holding  his  sides. 
It  was  droll  coming  on  the  top  of  his  assertion,  too 
droll !    And,  looking  up  at  her,  he  said : 

"That  was  good,  wasn't  it,  Gyp?" 

But  her  face  had  not  abated  its  gravity;  and, 
knowing  that  she  was  even  more  easily  tickled  by 
the  incongruous  than  himself,  he  felt  again  that 
catch  of  fear.  Something  was  different.  Yes; 
something  was  really  different. 

"Did  I  hurt  you  last  night?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  went  to  the  win- 
dow. He  looked  at  her  darkly,  jumped  up,  and 
swung  out  past  her  into  the  garden.  And,  almost 
at  once,  the  sound  of  his  violin,  furiously  played  in 
the  music-room,  came  across  the  lawn. 

Gyp  listened  with  a  bitter  smile.  Money,  too! 
But  what  did  it  matter?  She  could  not  get  out  of 
what  she  had  done.  She  could  never  get  out.  To- 
night he  would  kiss  her;  and  she  would  pretend  it 
was  all  right.  And  so  it  would  go  on  and  on !  Well, 
it  was  her  own  fault.  Taking  twelve  shillings  from 
her  purse,  she  put  them  aside  on  the  bureau  to  give 
the  maid.  And  suddenly  she  thought:  'Perhaps 
he'll  get  tired  of  me.  If  only  he  would  get  tired ! ' 
That  was  a  long  way  the  furthest  she  had  yet  gone. 


VII 

They  who  have  known  the  doldrums — how  the 
sails  of  the  listless  ship  droop,  and  the  hope  of  escape 
dies  day  by  day — may  understand  something  of  the 
life  Gyp  began  living  now.  On  a  ship,  even  dol- 
drums come  to  an  end.  But  a  young  woman  of 
twenty-three,  who  has  made  a  mistake  in  her  mar- 
riage, and  has  only  herself  to  blame,  looks  forward 
to  no  end,  unless  she  be  the  new  woman,  which  Gyp 
was  not.  Having  settled  that  she  would  not  admit 
failure,  and  clenched  her  teeth  on  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  going  to  have  a  child,  she  went  on 
keeping  things  sealed  up  even  from  Winton.  To 
Fiorsen,  she  managed  to  behave  as  usual,  making 
material  life  easy  and  pleasant  for  him — playing  for 
him,  feeding  him  well,  indulging  his  amorousness. 
It  did  not  matter;  she  loved  no  one  else.  To  count 
herself  a  martyr  would  be  silly !  Her  malaise,  suc- 
cessfully concealed,  was  deeper — of  the  spirit;  the 
subtle  utter  discouragement  of  one  who  has  done 
for  herself,  clipped  her  own  wings. 

As  for  Rosek,  she  treated  him  as  if  that  little  scene 
had  never  taken  place.  The  idea  of  appealing  to 
her  husband  in  a  difficulty  was  gone  for  ever  since 
the  night  he  came  home  drunk.  And  she  did  not 
dare  to  tell  her  father.  He  would — what  would  he 
not  do?    But  she  was  always  on  her  guard,  know- 

141 


142  BEYOND 

ing  that  Rosek  would  not  forgive  her  for  that  dart 
of  ridicule.  His  insinuations  about  Daphne  Wing 
she  put  out  of  mind,  as  she  never  could  have  if  she 
had  loved  Fiorsen.  She  set  up  for  herself  the  idol 
of  pride,  and  became  its  faithful  worshipper.  Only 
Winton,  and  perhaps  Betty,  could  tell  she  was  not 
happy.  Fiorsen's  debts  and  irresponsibility  about 
money  did  not  worry  her  much,  for  she  paid  every- 
thing in  the  house — rent,  wages,  food,  and  her  own 
dress — and  had  so  far  made  ends  meet;  and  what  he 
did  outside  the  house  she  could  not  help. 

So  the  summer  wore  on  till  concerts  were  over, 
and  it  was  supposed  to  be  impossible  to  stay  in 
London.  But  she  dreaded  going  away.  She  wanted 
to  be  left  quiet  in  her  little  house.  It  was  this  which 
made  her  tell  Fiorsen  her  secret  one  night,  after  the 
theatre.  He  had  begun  to  talk  of  a  holiday,  sit- 
ting on  the  edge  of  the  settee,  with  a  glass  in  his 
hand  and  a  cigarette  between  his  lips.  His  cheeks, 
white  and  hollow  from  too  much  London,  went  a 
curious  dull  red;  he  got  up  and  stared  at  her.  Gyp 
made  an  involuntary  movement  with  her  hands. 

"  You  needn't  look  at  me.    It's  true." 

He  put  down  glass  and  cigarette  and  began  to 
tramp  the  room.  And  Gyp  stood  with  a  little  smile, 
not  even  watching  him.  Suddenly  he  clasped  his 
forehead  and  broke  out: 

"But  I  don't  want  it;  I  won't  have  it — spoiling 
my  Gyp."  Then  quickly  going  up  to  her  with  a 
scared  face:  "I  don't  want  it;  I'm  afraid  of  it. 
Don't  have  it." 


BEYOND  143 

In  Gyp's  heart  came  the  same  feeling  as  when  he 
had  stood  there  drunk,  against  the  wall — compas- 
sion, rather  than  contempt  of  his  childishness.  And 
taking  his  hand  she  said : 

"All  right,  Gustav.  It  shan't  bother  you.  When 
I  begin  to  get  ugly,  I'll  go  away  with  Betty  till  it's 
over." 

He  went  down  on  his  knees. 

"Oh,  no!    Oh,  no!    Oh,  no!    My  beautiful  Gyp ! " 

And  Gyp  sat  like  a  sphinx,  for  fear  that  she  too 
might  let  slip  those  words:  "Oh,  no  I" 

The  windows  were  open,  and  moths  had  come  in. 
One  had  settled  on  the  hydrangea  plant  that  filled 
the  hearth.  Gyp  looked  at  the  soft,  white,  downy 
thing,  whose  head  was  like  a  tiny  owl's  against  the 
bluish  petals;  looked  at  the  purple-grey  tiles  down 
there,  and  the  stuff  of  her  own  frock,  in  the  shaded 
gleam  of  the  lamps.  And  all  her  love  of  beauty 
rebelled,  called  up  by  his:  "Oh,  no!"  She  would 
be  unsightly  soon,  and  suffer  pain,  and  perhaps  die 
of  it,  as  her  own  mother  had  died.  She  set  her  teeth, 
listening  to  that  grown-up  child  revolting  against 
what  he  had  brought  on  her,  and  touched  his  hand, 
protectingly. 

It  interested,  even  amused  her  this  night  and  next 
day  to  watch  his  treatment  of  the  disconcerting 
piece  of  knowledge.  For  when  at  last  he  realized 
that  he  had  to  acquiesce  in  nature,  he  began,  as  she 
had  known  he  would,  to  jib  away  from  all  reminder 
of  it.  She  was  careful  not  to  suggest  that  he  should 
go  away  without  her,  knowing  his  perversity.     But 


144  BEYOND 

when  he  proposed  that  she  should  come  to  Ostend 
with  him  and  Rosek,  she  answered,  after  seeming 
deliberation,  that  she  thought  she  had  better  not — 
she  would  rather  stay  at  home  quite  quietly;  but  he 
must  certainly  go  and  get  a  good  holiday. 

When  he  was  really  gone,  peace  fell  on  Gyp — 
peace  such  as  one  feels,  having  no  longer  the  tight, 
banded  sensations  of  a  fever.  To  be  without  that 
strange,  disorderly  presence  in  the  house!  When 
she  woke  in  the  sultry  silence  of  the  next  morning, 
she  utterly  failed  to  persuade  herself  that  she  was 
missing  him,  missing  the  sound  of  his  breathing,  the 
sight  of  his  rumpled  hair  on  the  pillow,  the  outline 
of  his  long  form  under  the  sheet.  Her  heart  was 
devoid  of  any  emptiness  or  ache;  she  only  felt  how 
pleasant  and  cool  and  tranquil  it  was  to  He  there 
alone.  She  stayed  quite  late  in  bed.  It  was  deli- 
cious, with  window  and  door  wide  open  and  the 
puppies  running  in  and  out,  to  lie  and  doze  off,  or 
listen  to  the  pigeons'  cooing,  and  the  distant  sounds 
of  traffic,  and  feel  in  command  once  more  of  herself, 
body  and  soul.  Now  that  she  had  told  Fiorsen,  she 
had  no  longer  any  desire  to  keep  her  condition  secret. 
Feeling  that  it  would  hurt  her  father  to  learn  of  it 
from  anyone  but  herself,  she  telephoned  to  tell  him 
she  was  alone,  and  asked  if  she  might  come  to  Bury 
Street  and  dine  with  him. 

Winton  had  not  gone  away,  because,  between 
Goodwood  and  Doncaster  there  was  no  racing  that 
he  cared  for;  one  could  not  ride  at  this  time  of  year, 
so  might  just  as  well  be  in  London.     In  fact,  August 


BEYOND  145 

was  perhaps  the  pleasantest  of  all  months  in  town; 
the  club  was  empty,  and  he  could  sit  there  without 
some  old  bore  buttonholing  him.  Little  Boncarte, 
the  fencing-master,  was  always  free  for  a  bout — 
Winton  had  long  learned  to  make  his  left  hand  what 
his  right  hand  used  to  be;  the  Turkish  baths  in  Jer- 
myn  Street  were  nearly  void  of  their  fat  clients;  he 
could  saunter  over  to  Covent  Garden,  buy  a  melon, 
and  carry  it  home  without  meeting  any  but  the  most 
inferior  duchesses  in  Piccadilly;  on  warm  nights  he 
could  stroll  the  streets  or  the  parks,  smoking  his 
cigar,  his  hat  pushed  back  to  cool  his  forehead, 
thinking  vague  thoughts,  recalling  vague  memories. 
He  received  the  news  that  his  daughter  was  alone 
and  free  from  that  fellow  with  something  like  de- 
light. Where  should  he  dine  her?  Mrs.  Markey 
was  on  her  holiday.  Why  not  Blafard's?  Quiet — 
small  rooms — not  too  respectable — quite  fairly  cool 
— good  things  to  eat.    Yes;  Blafard's ! 

When  she  drove  up,  he  was  ready  in  the  doorway, 
his  thin  brown  face  with  its  keen,  half-veiled  eyes 
the  picture  of  composure,  but  feeling  at  heart  like 
a  schoolboy  off  for  an  exeat.  How  pretty  she  was 
looking — though  pale  from  London — her  dark  eyes, 
her  smile !  And  stepping  quickly  to  the  cab,  he 
said: 

"No;  I'm  getting  in — dining  at  Blafard's,  Gyp — a 
night  out ! " 

It  gave  him  a  thrill  to  walk  into  that  little  restau- 
rant behind  her;  and  passing  through  its  low  red 
rooms  to  mark  the  diners  turn  and  stare  with  envy 


146  BEYOND 

— taking  him,  perhaps,  for  a  different  sort  of  rela- 
tion. He  settled  her  into  a  far  corner  by  a  window, 
where  she  could  see  the  people  and  be  seen.  He 
wanted  her  to  be  seen;  while  he  himself  turned  to 
the  world  only  the  short  back  wings  of  his  glossy 
greyish  hair.  He  had  no  notion  of  being  disturbed 
in  his  enjoyment  by  the  sight  of  Hivites  and  Amor- 
ites,  or  whatever  they  might  be,  lapping  champagne 
and  shining  in  the  heat.  For,  secretly,  he  was  liv- 
ing not  only  in  this  evening  but  in  a  certain  evening 
of  the  past,  when,  in  this  very  corner,  he  had  dined 
with  her  mother.  His  face  then  had  borne  the 
brunt;  hers  had  been  turned  away  from  inquisition. 
But  he  did  not  speak  of  this  to  Gyp. 

She  drank  two  full  glasses  of  wine  before  she  told 
him  her  news.  He  took  it  with  the  expression  she 
knew  so  well — tightening  his  lips  and  staring  a  little 
upward.     Then  he  said  quietly: 

"When?" 

"November,  Dad." 

A  shudder,  not  to  be  repressed,  went  through 
Winton.  The  very  month!  And  stretching  his 
hand  across  the  table,  he  took  hers  and  pressed  it 
tightly. 

"It'll  be  all  right,  child;  I'm  glad." 

Clinging  to  his  hand,  Gyp  murmured: 

"I'm  not;  but  I  won't  be  frightened — I  prom- 
ise." 

Each  was  trying  to  deceive  the  other;  and  neither 
was  deceived.  But  both  were  good  at  putting  a 
calm  face  on  things.     Besides,  this  was  "a  night 


BEYOND  147 

out" — for  her,  the  first  since  her  marriage — of  free- 
dom, of  feeling  somewhat  as  she  used  to  feel  with 
all  before  her  in  a  ballroom  of  a  world;  for  him,  the 
unfettered  resumption  of  a  dear  companionship  and 
a  stealthy  revel  in  the  past.  After  his,  "  So  he's  gone 
to  Ostend?"  and  his  thought:  'He  would!'  they 
never  alluded  to  Fiorsen,  but  talked  of  horses,  of 
Mildenham — it  seemed  to  Gyp  years  since  she  had 
been  there — of  her  childish  escapades.  And,  looking 
at  him  quizzically,  she  asked: 

"  What  were  you  like  as  a  boy,  Dad  ?  Aunt  Rosa- 
mund says  that  you  used  to  get  into  white  rages 
when  nobody  could  go  near  you.  She  says  you 
were  always  climbing  trees,  or  shooting  with  a  cata- 
pult, or  stalking  things,  and  that  you  never  told 
anybody  what  you  didn't  want  to  tell  them.  And 
weren't  you  desperately  in  love  with  your  nursery- 
governess?" 

Winton  smiled.  How  long  since  he  had  thought 
of  that  first  affection.  Miss  Huntley!  Helena 
Huntley — with  crinkly  brown  hair,  and  blue  eyes, 
and  fascinating  frocks !  He  remembered  with  what 
grief  and  sense  of  bitter  injury  he  heard  in  his  first 
school-holidays  that  she  was  gone.     And  he  said: 

"Yes,  yes.  By  Jove,  what  a  time  ago !  And  my 
father's  going  off  to  India.  He  never  came  back; 
killed  in  that  first  Afghan  business.  When  I  was 
fond,  I  was  fond.  But  I  didn't  feel  things  like  you 
— not  half  so  sensitive.  No;  not  a  bit  like  you, 
Gyp." 

And  watching  her  unconscious  eyes  following  the 


148  BEYOND 

movements  of  the  waiters,  never  staring,  but  taking 
in  all  that  was  going  on,  he  thought:  'Prettiest 
creature  in  the  world ! ' 

"Well,"  he  said:  "What  would  you  like  to  do 
now — drop  into  a  theatre  or  music-hall,  or  what?" 

Gyp  shook  her  head.  It  was  so  hot.  Could  they 
just  drive,  and  then  perhaps  sit  in  the  park  ?  That 
would  be  lovely.  It  had  gone  dark,  and  the 
air  was  not  quite  so  exhausted — a  little  freshness  of 
scent  from  the  trees  in  the  squares  and  parks  min- 
gled with  the  fumes  of  dung  and  petrol.  Winton 
gave  the  same  order  he  had  given  that  long  past 
evening:  " Knightsbridge  Gate."  It  had  been  a 
hansom  then,  and  the  night  air  had  blown  in  their 
faces,  instead  of  as  now  in  these  infernal  taxis,  down 
the  back  of  one's  neck.  They  left  the  cab  and 
crossed  the  Row;  passed  the  end  of  the  Long  Water, 
up  among  the  trees.  There,  on  two  chairs  covered 
by  Winton's  coat,  they  sat  side  by  side.  No  dew 
was  falling  yet;  the  heavy  leaves  hung  unstirring; 
the  air  was  warm,  sweet-smelling.  Blotted  against 
trees  or  on  the  grass  were  other  couples  darker  than 
the  darkness,  very  silent.  All  was  quiet  save  for 
the  never-ceasing  hum  of  traffic.  From  Winton's 
lips,  the  cigar  smoke  wreathed  and  curled.  He  was 
dreaming.  The  cigar  between  his  teeth  trembled;  a 
long  ash  fell.  Mechanically  he  raised  his  hand  to 
brush  it  off — his  right  hand !  A  voice  said  softly  in 
his  ear: 

"Isn't  it  delicious,  and  warm,  and  gloomy  black?" 

Winton   shivered,   as  one   shivers  recalled  from 


BEYOND  149 

dreams;  and,  carefully  brushing  off  the  ash  with 
his  left  hand,  he  answered: 

"Yes;  very  jolly.  My  cigar's  out,  though,  and  I 
haven't  a  match." 

Gyp's  hand  slipped  through  his  arm. 

"All  these  people  in  love,  and  so  dark  and  whis- 
pery — it  makes  a  sort  of  strangeness  in  the  air. 
Don't  you  feel  it?" 

Winton  murmured: 

"No  moon  to-night!" 

Again  they  were  silent.  A  puff  of  wind  ruffled 
the  leaves;  the  night,  for  a  moment,  seemed  full  of 
whispering;  then  the  sound  of  a  giggle  jarred  out 
and  a  girl's  voice: 

"Oh!    Chuck  it, 'Arry." 

Gyp  rose. 

"I  feel  the  dew  now,  Dad.     Can  we  walk  on?" 

They  went  along  paths,  so  as  not  to  wet  her  feet 
in  her  thin  shoes.  And  they  talked.  The  spell  was 
over;  the  night  again  but  a  common  London  night; 
the  park  a  space  of  parching  grass  and  gravel;  the 
people  just  clerks  and  shop-girls  walking  out. 


VIII 

Fiorsen's  letters  were  the  source  of  one  long 
smile  to  Gyp.  He  missed  her  horribly;  if  only  she 
were  there ! — and  so  forth — blended  in  the  queerest 
way  with  the  impression  that  he  was  enjoying  him- 
self uncommonly.  There  were  requests  for  money, 
and  careful  omission  of  any  real  account  of  what  he 
was  doing.  Out  of  a  balance  running  rather  low, 
she  sent  him  remittances;  this  was  her  holiday,  too, 
and  she  could  afford  to  pay  for  it.  She  even  sought 
out  a  shop  where  she  could  sell  jewelry,  and,  with  a 
certain  malicious  joy,  forwarded  him  the  proceeds. 
It  would  give  him  and  herself  another  week. 

One  night  she  went  with  Winton  to  the  Octagon, 
where  Daphne  Wing  was  still  performing.  Remem- 
bering the  girl's  squeaks  of  rapture  at  her  garden, 
she  wrote  next  day,  asking  her  to  lunch  and  spend  a 
lazy  afternoon  under  the  trees. 

The  little  dancer  came  with  avidity.  She  was 
pale,  and  droopy  from  the  heat,  but  happily  dressed 
in  Liberty  silk,  with  a  plain  turn-down  straw  hat. 
They  lunched  off  sweetbreads,  ices,  and  fruit,  and 
then,  with  coffee,  cigarettes,  and  plenty  of  sugar- 
plums, settled  down  in  the  deepest  shade  of  the 
garden,  Gyp  in  a  low  wicker  chair,  Daphne  Wing  on 
cushions  and  the  grass.  Once  past  the  exclamatory 
stage,  she  seemed  a  great  talker,  laying  bare  her  lit- 
tle soul  with  perfect  liberality.    And  Gyp — excellent 

150 


BEYOND  151 

listener — enjoyed  it,  as  one  enjoys  all  confidential 
revelations  of  existences  very  different  from  one's 
own,  especially  when  regarded  as  a  superior  being. 

"Of  course  I  don't  mean  to  stay  at  home  any 
longer  than  I  can  help;  only  it's  no  good  going  out 
into  life" — this  phrase  she  often  used — "till  you 
know  where  you  are.  In  my  profession,  one  has  to 
be  so  careful.  Of  course,  people  think  it's  worse 
than  it  is;  father  gets  fits  sometimes.  But  you 
know,  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  home's  awful.  We  have  mut- 
ton— you  know  what  mutton  is — it's  really  awful  in 
your  bedroom  in  hot  weather.  And  there's  nowhere 
to  practise.  What  I  should  like  would  be  a  stu- 
dio. It  would  be  lovely,  somewhere  down  by  the 
river,  or  up  here  near  you.  That  would  be  lovely. 
You  know,  I'm  putting  by.  As  soon  as  ever  I 
have  two  hundred  pounds,  I  shall  skip.  What  I 
think  would  be  perfectly  lovely  would  be  to  in- 
spire painters  and  musicians.  I  don't  want  to  be 
just  a  common  'turn' — ballet  business  year  after 
year,  and  that;  I  want  to  be  something  rather  spe- 
cial. But  mother's  so  silly  about  me;  she  thinks  I 
oughtn't  to  take  any  risks  at  all.  I  shall  never  get 
on  that  way.  It  is  so  nice  to  talk  to  you,  Mrs. 
Fiorsen,  because  you're  young  enough  to  know  what 
I  feel;  and  I'm  sure  you'd  never  be  shocked  at  any^ 
thing.  You  see,  about  men:  Ought  one  to  marry, 
or  ought  one  to  take  a  lover?  They  say  you  can't 
be  a  perfect  artist  till  you've  felt  passion.  But, 
then,  if  you  marry,  that  means  mutton  over  again, 
and  perhaps  babies,  and  perhaps  the  wrong  man 


152  BEYOND 

after  all.  Ugh!  But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  I 
don't  want  to  be  raffish.  I  hate  raffish  people — I 
simply  hate  them.  What  do  you  think?  It's  aw- 
fully difficult,  isn't  it?" 

Gyp,  perfectly  grave,  answered: 

"That  sort  of  thing  settles  itself.  I  shouldn't 
bother  beforehand." 

Miss  Daphne  Wing  buried  her  perfect  chin  deeper 
in  her  hands,  and  said  meditatively: 

"Yes;  I  rather  thought  that,  too;  of  course  I 
could  do  either  now.  But,  you  see,  I  really  don't 
care  for  men  who  are  not  distinguished.  I'm  sure 
I  shall  only  fall  in  love  with  a  really  distinguished 
man.  That's  what  you  did — isn't  it? — so  you 
must  understand.  I  think  Mr.  Fiorsen  is  wonder- 
fully distinguished." 

Sunlight,  piercing  the  shade,  suddenly  fell  warm 
on  Gyp's  neck  where  her  blouse  ceased,  and  for- 
tunately stilled  the  medley  of  emotion  and  laughter 
a  little  lower  down.  She  continued  to  look  gravely 
at  Daphne  Wing,  who  resumed: 

"Of  course,  Mother  would  have  fits  if  I  asked 
her  such  a  question,  and  I  don't  know  what  Father 
would  do.  Only  it  is  important,  isn't  it?  One 
may  go  all  wrong  from  the  start;  and  I  do  really 
want  to  get  on.  I  simply  adore  my  work.  I  don't 
mean  to  let  love  stand  in  its  way;  I  want  to  make 
it  help,  you  know.  Count  Rosek  says  my  dancing 
lacks  passion.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  if  you  think  it 
does.    I  should  believe  you." 

Gyp  shook  her  head. 


BEYOND  153 

"I'm  not  a  judge." 

Daphne  Wing  looked  up  reproachfully. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  you  are!  If  I  were  a  man,  I 
should  be  passionately  in  love  with  you.  I've  got 
a  new  dance  where  I'm  supposed  to  be  a  nymph 
pursued  by  a  faun;  it's  so  difficult  to  feel  like  a 
nymph  when  you  know  it's  only  the  ballet-master. 
Do  you  think  I  ought  to  put  passion  into  that? 
You  see,  I'm  supposed  to  be  flying  all  the  time; 
but  it  would  be  much  more  subtle,  wouldn't  it,  if 
I  could  give  the  impression  that  I  wanted  to  be 
caught.    Don't  you  think  so?" 

Gyp  said  suddenly: 

"Yes,  I  think  it  would  do  you  good  to  be  in 
love." 

Miss  Daphne's  mouth  fell  a  little  open;  her  eyes 
grew  round.    She  said: 

"You  frightened  me  when  you  said  that.  You 
looked  so  different — so — intense." 

A  flame  indeed  had  leaped  up  in  Gyp.  This 
fluffy,  flabby  talk  of  love  set  her  instincts  in  revolt. 
She  did  not  want  to  love;  she  had  failed  to  fall  in 
love.  But,  whatever  love  was  like,  it  did  not  bear 
talking  about.  How  was  it  that  this  little  suburban 
girl,  when  she  once  got  on  her  toes,  could  twirl 
one's  emotions  as  she  did? 

"D'you  know  what  I  should  simply  revel  in?" 
Daphne  Wing  went  on:  "To  dance  to  you  here  in 
the  garden  some  night.  It  must  be  wonderful  to 
dance  out  of  doors;  and  the  grass  is  nice  and  hard 
now.    Only,  I  suppose  it  would  shock  the  servants. 


154  BEYOND 

Do  they  look  out  this  way?"  Gyp  shook  her  head. 
"I  could  dance  over  there  in  front  of  the  drawing- 
room  window.  Only  it  would  have  to  be  moon- 
light. I  could  come  any  Sunday.  I've  got  a  dance 
where  I'm  supposed  to  be  a  lotus  flower — that 
would  do  splendidly.  And  there's  my  real  moon- 
light dance  that  goes  to  Chopin.  I  could  bring  my 
dresses,  and  change  in  the  music-room,  couldn't 
I?"  She  wriggled  up,  and  sat  cross-legged,  gazing 
at  Gyp,  and  clasping  her  hands.    "Oh,  may  I?" 

Her  excitement  infected  Gyp.  A  desire  to  give 
pleasure,  the  queerness  of  the  notion,  and  her  real 
love  of  seeing  this  girl  dance,  made  her  say: 

"Yes;  next  Sunday." 

Daphne  Wing  got  up,  made  a  rush,  and  kissed 
her.  Her  mouth  was  soft,  and  she  smelled  of  orange 
blossom;  but  Gyp  recoiled  a  little — she  hated 
promiscuous  kisses.  Somewhat  abashed,  Miss 
Daphne  hung  her  head,  and  said: 

"You  did  look  so  lovely;  I  couldn't  help  it, 
really." 

And  Gyp  gave  her  hand  the  squeeze  of  com- 
punction. 

They  went  indoors,  to  try  over  the  music  of  the 
two  dances;  and  soon  after  Daphne  Wing  departed, 
full  of  sugar-plums  and  hope. 

She  arrived  punctually  at  eight  o'clock  next 
Sunday,  carrying  an  exiguous  green  linen  bag, 
which  contained  her  dresses.  She  was  subdued, 
and,  now  that  it  had  come  to  the  point,  evidently 
a  little  scared.     Lobster  salad,  hock,  and  peaches 


BEYOND  155 

restored  her  courage.  She  ate  heartily.  It  did 
not  apparently  matter  to  her  whether  she  danced 
full  or  empty;   but  she  would  not  smoke. 

"It's  bad  for  the — "    She  checked  herself. 

When  they  had  finished  supper,  Gyp  shut  the 
dogs  into  the  back  premises;  she  had  visions  of 
their  rending  Miss  Wing's  draperies,  or  calves. 
Then  they  went  into  the  drawing-room,  not  light- 
ing up,  that  they  might  tell  when  the  moonlight 
was  strong  enough  outside.  Though  it  was  the 
last  night  of  August,  the  heat  was  as  great  as  ever 
— a  deep,  unstirring  warmth;  the  climbing  moon 
shot  as  yet  but  a  thin  shaft  here  and  there  through 
the  heavy  foliage.  They  talked  in  low  voices,  un- 
consciously playing  up  to  the  nature  of  the  escapade. 
As  the  moon  drew  up,  they  stole  out  across  the 
garden  to  the  music-room.  Gyp  lighted  the  can- 
dles. 

"Can  you  manage?" 

Miss  Daphne  had  already  shed  half  her  gar- 
ments. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  excited,  Mrs.  Fiorsen!  I  do  hope 
I  shall  dance  well." 

Gyp  stole  back  to  the  house;  it  being  Sunday 
evening,  the  servants  had  been  easily  disposed  of. 
She  sat  down  at  the  piano,  turning  her  eyes  toward 
the  garden.  A  blurred  white  shape  flitted  sud- 
denly across  the  darkness  at  the  far  end  and  be- 
came motionless,  as  it  might  be  a  whiteflowering 
bush  under  the  trees.  Miss  Daphne  had  come 
out,  and  was  waiting  for  the  moon.    Gyp  began  to 


156  BEYOND 

play.  She  pitched  on  a  little  Sicilian  pastorale 
that  the  herdsmen  play  on  their  pipes  coming  down 
from  the  hills,  softly,  from  very  far,  rising,  rising, 
swelling  to  full  cadence,  and  failing,  failing  away 
again  to  nothing.  The  moon  rose  over  the  trees; 
its  light  flooded  the  face  of  the  house,  down  on  to 
the  grass,  and  spread  slowly  back  toward  where 
the  girl  stood  waiting.  It  caught  the  border  of 
sunflowers  along  the  garden  wall  with  a  stroke  of 
magical,  unearthly  colour — gold  that  was  not  gold. 

Gyp  began  to  play  the  dance.  The  pale  blurr  in 
the  darkness  stirred.  The  moonlight  fell  on  the 
girl  now,  standing  with  arms  spread,  holding  out 
her  drapery — a  white,  winged  statue.  Then,  like 
a  gigantic  moth  she  fluttered  forth,  blanched  and 
noiseless  flew  over  the  grass,  spun  and  hovered. 
The  moonlight  etched  out  the  shape  of  her  head, 
painted  her  hair  with  pallid  gold.  In  the  silence, 
with  that  unearthly  gleam  of  colour  along  the  sun- 
flowers and  on  the  girl's  head,  it  was  as  if  a  spirit 
had  dropped  into  the  garden  and  was  fluttering  to 
and  fro,  unable  to  get  out. 

A  voice  behind  Gyp  said:  "My  God!  What's 
this?    An  angel?" 

Fiorsen  was  standing  half-way  in  the  darkened 
room  staring  out  into  the  garden,  where  the  girl 
had  halted,  transfixed  before  the  window,  her  eyes 
as  round  as  saucers,  her  mouth  open,  her  limbs 
rigid  with  interest  and  affright.  Suddenly  she 
turned  and,  gathering  her  garment,  fled,  her  limbs 
gleaming  in  the  moonlight. 


BEYOND  157 

And  Gyp  sat  looking  up  at  the  apparition  of 
her  husband.  She  could  just  see  his  eyes  strain- 
ing after  that  flying  nymph.  Miss  Daphne's  faun ! 
Why,  even  his  ears  were  pointed!  Had  she  never 
noticed  before,  how  like  a  faun  he  was  ?  Yes — on 
her  wedding-night!    And  she  said  quietly: 

"Daphne  Wing  was  rehearsing  her  new  dance. 
So  you're  back!  Why  didn't  you  let  me  know? 
Are  you  all  right — you  look  splendid ! " 

Fiorsen  bent  down  and  clutched  her  by  the 
shoulders. 

"My  Gyp!    Kiss  me!" 

But  even  while  his  lips  were  pressed  on  hers, 
she  felt  rather  than  saw  his  eyes  straying  to  the 
garden,  and  thought,  "He  would  like  to  be  kissing 
that  girl!" 

The  moment  he  had  gone  to  get  his  things  from 
the  cab,  she  slipped  out  to  the  music-room. 

Miss  Daphne  was  dressed,  and  stufhng  her  gar- 
ments into  the  green  linen  bag.  She  looked  up, 
and  said  piteously : 

"Oh!    Does  he  mind?    It's  awful,  isn't  it?" 

Gyp  strangled  her  desire  to  laugh. 

"It's  for  you  to  mind." 

"Oh,  /  don't,  if  you  don't!  How  did  you  like 
the  dance?" 

"Lovely!    When  you're  ready — come  along!" 

"Oh,  I  think  I'd  rather  go  home,  please!  It 
must  seem  so  funny ! " 

"Would  you  like  to  go  by  this  back  way  into  the 
lane?    You  turn  to  the  right,  into  the  road." 


158  BEYOND 

"Oh,  yes;  please.  It  would  have  been  better 
if  he  could  have  seen  the  dance  properly,  wouldn't 
it?    What  will  he  think?" 

Gyp  smiled,  and  opened  the  door  into  the  lane. 

When  she  returned,  Fiorsen  was  at  the  win- 
dow, gazing  out.  Was  it  for  her  or  for  that  flying 
nymph? 


IX 

September  and  October  passed.  There  were 
more  concerts,  not  very  well  attended.  Fiorsen's 
novelty  had  worn  off,  nor  had  his  playing  sweetness 
and  sentiment  enough  for  the  big  Public.  There 
was  also  a  financial  crisis.  It  did  not  seem  to  Gyp 
to  matter.  Everything  seemed  remote  and  unreal 
in  the  shadow  of  her  coming  time.  Unlike  most 
mothers  to  be,  she  made  no  garments,  no  prepara- 
tions of  any  kind.  Why  make  what  might  never 
be  needed?  She  played  for  Fiorsen  a  great  deal, 
for  herself  not  at  all,  read  many  books — poetry, 
novels,  biographies — taking  them  in  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  forgetting  them  at  once,  as  one  does 
with  books  read  just  to  distract  the  mind.  Winton 
and  Aunt  Rosamund,  by  tacit  agreement,  came  on 
alternate  afternoons.  And  Winton,  almost  as 
much  under  that  shadow  as  Gyp  herself,  would 
take  the  evening  train  after  leaving  her,  and  spend 
the  next  day  racing  or  cub-hunting,  returning  the 
morning  of  the  day  after  to  pay  his  next  visit.  He 
had  no  dread  just  then  like  that  of  an  unoccupied 
day  face  to  face  with  anxiety. 

Betty,  who  had  been  present  at  Gyp's  birth,  was 
in  a  queer  state.  The  obvious  desirability  of  such 
events  to  one  of  motherly  type  defrauded  by  fate 
of  children  was  terribly  impinged  on  by  that  old 
memory,  and  a  solicitude  for  her  "pretty"  far  ex- 

159 


160  BEYOND 

ceeding  what  she  would  have  had  for  a  daughter 
of  her  own.  What  a  peony  regards  as  a  natural 
happening  to  a  peony,  she  watches  with  awe  when 
it  happens  to  the  lily.  That  other  single  lady  of 
a  certain  age,  Aunt  Rosamund,  the  very  antithesis 
to  Betty — a  long,  thin  nose  and  a  mere  button,  a 
sense  of  divine  rights  and  no  sense  of  rights  at  all, 
a  drawl  and  a  comforting  wheeze,  length  and  cir- 
cumference, decision  and  the  curtsey  to  providence, 
humour  and  none,  dyspepsia,  and  the  digestion  of 
an  ostrich,  with  other  oppositions — Aunt  Rosa- 
mund was  also  uneasy,  as  only  one  could  be  who 
disapproved  heartily  of  uneasiness,  and  habitually 
joked  and  drawled  it  into  retirement. 

But  of  all  those  round  Gyp,  Fiorsen  gave  the 
most  interesting  display.  He  had  not  even  an 
elementary  notion  of  disguising  his  state  of  mind. 
And  his  state  of  mind  was  weirdly,  wistfully  primi- 
tive. He  wanted  Gyp  as  she  had  been.  The  thought 
that  she  might  never  become  herself  again  terrified 
him  so  at  times  that  he  was  forced  to  drink  brandy, 
and  come  home  only  a  little  less  far  gone  than  that 
first  time.  Gyp  had  often  to  help  him  go  to 
bed.  On  two  or  three  occasions,  he  suffered  so  that 
he  was  out  all  night.  To  account  for  this,  she  de- 
vised the  formula  of  a  room  at  Count  Rosek's, 
where  he  slept  when  music  kept  him  late,  so  as  not 
to  disturb  her.  Whether  the  servants  believed  her 
or  not,  she  never  knew.  Nor  did  she  ever  ask  him 
where  he  went — too  proud,  and  not  feeling  that 
she  had  the  right. 


BEYOND  161 

Deeply  conscious  of  the  unaesthetic  nature  of 
her  condition,  she  was  convinced  that  she  could 
no  longer  be  attractive  to  one  so  easily  upset  in 
his  nerves,  so  intolerant  of  ugliness.  As  to  deeper 
feelings  about  her — had  he  any?  He  certainly 
never  gave  anything  up,  or  sacrificed  himself  in 
any  way.  If  she  had  loved,  she  felt  she  would  want 
to  give  up  everything  to  the  loved  one;  but  then — 
she  would  never  love!  And  yet  he  seemed  fright- 
ened about  her.  It  was  puzzling !  But  perhaps  she 
would  not  be  puzzled  much  longer  about  that  or 
anything;  for  she  often  had  the  feeling  that  she 
would  die.  How  could  she  be  going  to  live,  grudging 
her  fate?  What  would  give  her  strength  to  go 
through  with  it?  And,  at  times,  she  felt  as  if  she 
would  be  glad  to  die.  Life  had  defrauded  her,  or 
she  had  defrauded  herself  of  life.  Was  it  really 
only  a  year  since  that  glorious  day's  hunting  when 
Dad  and  she,  and  the  young  man  with  the  clear 
eyes  and  the  irrepressible  smile,  had  slipped  away 
with  the  hounds  ahead  of  all  the  field — the  fatal 
day  Fiorsen  descended  from  the  clouds  and  asked 
for  her?  An  overwhelming  longing  for  Mildenham 
came  on  her,  to  get  away  there  with  her  father  and 
Betty. 

She  went  at  the  beginning  of  November. 

Over  her  departure,  Fiorsen  behaved  like  a  tired 
child  that  will  not  go  to  bed.  He  could  not  bear 
to  be  away  from  her,  and  so  forth;  but  when  she 
had  gone,  he  spent  a  furious  bohemian  evening. 
At  about  five,  he  woke  with  "an  awful  cold  feeling 


1 62  BEYOND 

in  my  heart,"  as  he  wrote  to  Gyp  next  day — "an 
awful  feeling,  my  Gyp;  I  walked  up  and  down  for 
hours"  (in  reality,  half  an  hour  at  most).  "How 
shall  I  bear  to  be  away  from  you  at  this  time?  I 
feel  lost."  Next  day,  he  found  himself  in  Paris 
with  Rosek.  "I  could  not  stand,"  he  wrote,  "the 
sight  of  the  streets,  of  the  garden,  of  our  room. 
When  I  come  back  I  shall  stay  with  Rosek.  Nearer 
to  the  day  I  will  come;  I  must  come  to  you."  But 
Gyp,  when  she  read  the  letter,  said  to  Winton: 
"Dad,  when  it  comes,  don't  send  for  him.  I  don't 
want  him  here." 

With  those  letters  of  his,  she  buried  the  last 
remnants  of  her  feeling  that  somewhere  in  him 
there  must  be  something  as  fine  and  beautiful  as 
the  sounds  he  made  with  his  violin.  And  yet  she 
felt  those  letters  genuine  in  a  way,  pathetic,  and 
with  real  feeling  of  a  sort. 

From  the  moment  she  reached  Mildenham,  she 
began  to  lose  that  hopelessness  about  herself;  and, 
for  the  first  time,  had  the  sensation  of  wanting  to 
live  in  the  new  life  within  her.  She  first  felt  it, 
going  into  her  old  nursery,  where  everything  was 
the  same  as  it  had  been  when  she  first  saw  it,  a 
child  of  eight;  there  was  her  old  red  doll's  house, 
the  whole  side  of  which  opened  to  display  the  various 
floors;  the  worn  Venetian  blinds,  the  rattle  of 
whose  fall  had  sounded  in  her  ears  so  many  hun- 
dred times;  the  high  fender,  near  which  she  had 
lain  so  often  on  the  floor,  her  chin  on  her  hands, 
reading  Grimm,  or  "Alice  in  Wonderland,"  or  his- 


BEYOND  163 

tories  of  England.  Here,  too,  perhaps  this  new 
child  would  live  amongst  the  old  familiars.  And 
the  whim  seized  her  to  face  her  hour  in  her  old 
nursery,  not  in  the  room  where  she  had  slept  as 
a  girl.  She  would  not  like  the  daintiness  of  that 
room  deflowered.  Let  it  stay  the  room  of  her  girl- 
hood. But  in  the  nursery — there  was  safety,  com- 
fort! And  when  she  had  been  at  Mildenham  a 
week,  she  made  Betty  change  her  over. 

No  one  in  that  house  was  half  so  calm  to  look 
at  in  those  days  as  Gyp.  Betty  was  not  guiltless 
of  sitting  on  the  stairs  and  crying  at  odd  moments. 
Mrs.  Markey  had  never  made  such  bad  soups. 
Markey  so  far  forgot  himself  as  frequently  to  talk. 
Winton  lamed  a  horse  trying  an  impossible  jump 
that  he  might  get  home  the  quicker,  and,  once 
back,  was  like  an  unquiet  spirit.  If  Gyp  were  in 
the  room,  he  would  make  the  pretence  of  wanting 
to  warm  his  feet  or  hand,  just  to  stroke  her  shoulder 
as  he  went  back  to  his  chair.  His  voice,  so  measured 
and  dry,  had  a  ring  in  it,  that  too  plainly  disclosed 
the  anxiety  of  his  heart.  Gyp,  always  sensitive 
to  atmosphere,  felt  cradled  in  all  the  love  about 
her.  Wonderful  that  they  should  all  care  so  much ! 
What  had  she  done  for  anyone,  that  people  should 
be  so  sweet — he  especially,  whom  she  had  so  griev- 
ously distressed  by  her  wretched  marriage?  She 
would  sit  staring  into  the  fire  with  her  wide,  dark 
eyes,  unblinking  as  an  owl's  at  night — wondering 
what  she  could  do  to  make  up  to  her  father,  whom 
already  once  she  had  nearly  killed  by  coming  into 


1 64  BEYOND 

life.  And  she  began  to  practise  the  bearing  of  the 
coming  pain,  trying  to  project  herself  into  this  un- 
known suffering,  so  that  it  should  not  surprise  from 
her  cries  and  contortions. 

She  had  one  dream,  over  and  over  again,  of  sink- 
ing and  sinking  into  a  feather  bed,  growing  hotter 
and  more  deeply  walled  in  by  that  which  had  no 
stay  in  it,  yet  through  which  her  body  could  not 
fall  and  reach  anything  more  solid.  Once,  after 
this  dream,  she  got  up  and  spent  the  rest  of  the 
night  wrapped  in  a  blanket  and  the  eider-down, 
on  the  old  sofa,  where,  as  a  child,  they  had  made 
her  he  flat  on  her  back  from  twelve  to  one  every 
day.  Betty  was  aghast  at  finding  her  there  asleep 
in  the  morning.  Gyp's  face  was  so  like  the  child- 
face  she  had  seen  lying  there  in  the  old  days,  that 
she  bundled  out  of  the  room  and  cried  bitterly  into 
the  cup  of  tea.  It  did  her  good.  Going  back  with 
the  tea,  she  scolded  her  "pretty"  for  sleeping  out 
there,  with  the  fire  out,  too ! 

But  Gyp  only  said: 

" Betty,  darling,  the  tea's  awfully  cold!  Please 
get  me  some  more !" 


From  the  day  of  the  nurse's  arrival,  Winton 
gave  up  hunting.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to 
be  out  of  doors  for  more  than  half  an  hour  at  a 
time.  Distrust  of  doctors  did  not  prevent  him 
having  ten  minutes  every  morning  with  the  old 
practitioner  who  had  treated  Gyp  for  mumps, 
measles,  and  the  other  blessings  of  childhood.  The 
old  fellow — his  name  was  Rivershaw — was  a  most 
peculiar  survival.  He  smelled  of  mackintosh,  had 
round  purplish  cheeks,  a  rim  of  hair  which  people 
said  he  dyed,  and  bulging  grey  eyes  slightly  blood- 
shot. He  was  short  in  body  and  wind,  drank  port 
wine,  was  suspected  of  taking  snuff,  read  The  Times, 
spoke  always  in  a  husky  voice,  and  used  a  very 
small  brougham  with  a  very  old  black  horse.  But 
he  had  a*  certain  low  cunning,  which  had  defeated 
many  ailments,  and  his  reputation  for  assisting 
people  into  the  world  stood  extremely  high.  Every 
morning  punctually  at  twelve,  the  crunch  of  his 
little  brougham's  wheels  would  be  heard.  Winton 
would  get  up,  and,  taking  a  deep  breath,  cross  the 
hall  to  the  dining-room,  extract  from  a  sideboard 
a  decanter  of  port,  a  biscuit-canister,  and  one  glass. 
He  would  then  stand  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
door,  till,  in  due  time,  the  doctor  would  appear, 
and  he  could  say: 

"Well,  doctor?    How  is  she?" 

16S 


1 66  BEYOND 

"Nicely;  quite  nicely." 

"Nothing  to  make  one  anxious?" 

The  doctor,  puffing  out  his  cheeks,  with  eyes 
straying  to  the  decanter,  would  murmur: 

"  Cardiac  condition,  capital — a  little — um — not  to 
matter.     Taking  its  course.     These  things ! " 

And  Winton,  with  another  deep  breath,  would  say: 

"Glass  of  port,  doctor?" 

An  expression  of  surprise  would  pass  over  the 
doctor's  face. 

"Cold  day — ah,  perhaps — "  And  he  would  blow 
his  nose  on  his  purple-and-red  bandanna. 

Watching  him  drink  his  port,  Winton  would  re- 
mark: 

"We  can  get  you  at  any  time,  can't  we?" 

And  the  doctor,  sucking  his  lips,  would  answer: 

"Never  fear,  my  dear  sir !  Little  Miss  Gyp — old 
friend  of  mine.  At  her  service  day  and  night. 
Never  fear!" 

A  sensation  of  comfort  would  pass  through  Win- 
ton, which  would  last  quite  twenty  minutes  after 
the  crunching  of  the  wheels  and  the  mingled  per- 
fumes of  him  had  died  away. 

In  these  days,  his  greatest  friend  was  an  old 
watch  that  had  been  his  father's  before  him;  a  gold 
repeater  from  Switzerland,  with  a  chipped  dial- 
plate,  and  a  case  worn  wondrous  thin  and  smooth — 
a  favourite  of  Gyp's  childhood.  He  would  take  it 
out  about  every  quarter  of  an  hour,  look  at  its  face 
without  discovering  the  time,  finger  it,  all  smooth 
and  warm  from  contact  with  his  body,  and  put  it 


BEYOND  167 

back.  Then  he  would  listen.  There  was  nothing 
whatever  to  listen  to,  but  he  could  not  help  it. 
Apart  from  this,  his  chief  distraction  was  to  take  a 
foil  and  make  passes  at  a  leather  cushion,  set  up  on 
the  top  of  a  low  bookshelf.  In  these  occupations, 
varied  by  constant  visits  to  the  room  next  the  nur- 
sery, where — to  save  her  the  stairs — Gyp  was  now 
established,  and  by  excursions  to  the  conservatory 
to  see  if  he  could  not  find  some  new  flower  to  take 
her,  he  passed  all  his  time,  save  when  he  was  eat- 
ing, sleeping,  or  smoking  cigars,  which  he  had  con- 
stantly to  be  relighting. 

By  Gyp's  request,  they  kept  from  him  knowledge 
of  when  her  pains  began.  After  that  first  bout  was 
over  and  she  was  lying  half  asleep  in  the  old  nursery, 
he  happened  to  go  up.  The  nurse — a  bonny  crea- 
ture— one  of  those  free,  independent,  economic 
agents  that  now  abound — met  him  in  the  sitting- 
room.  Accustomed  to  the  "fuss  and  botheration  of 
men"  at  such  times,  she  was  prepared  to  deliver 
him  a  little  lecture.  But,  in  approaching,  she  be- 
came affected  by  the  look  on  his  face,  and,  realizing 
somehow  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  one  whose 
self-control  was  proof,  she  simply  whispered: 

"It's  beginning;  but  don't  be  anxious — she's  not 
suffering  just  now.  We  shall  send  for  the  doctor 
soon.  She's  very  plucky";  and  with  an  unaccus- 
tomed sensation  of  respect  and  pity  she  repeated: 
"Don't  be  anxious,  sir." 

"  If  she  wants  to  see  me  at  any  time,  I  shall  be  in 
my  study.     Save  her  all  you  can,  nurse." 


1 68  BEYOND 

The  nurse  was  left  with  a  feeling  of  surprise  at 
having  used  the  word  "Sir";  she  had  not  done  such 
a  thing  since — since — !  And,  pensive,  she  returned 
to  the  nursery,  where  Gyp  said  at  once: 

"Was  that  my  father?  I  didn't  want  him  to 
know." 

The  nurse  answered  mechanically: 

"That's  all  right,  my  dear." 

"How  long  do  you  think  before — before  it'll  begin 
again,  nurse?    I'd  like  to  see  him." 

The  nurse  stroked  her  hair. 

"  Soon  enough  when  it's  all  over  and  comfy.  Men 
are  always  fidgety." 

Gyp  looked  at  her,  and  said  quietly: 

"Yes.  You  see,  my  mother  died  when  I  was 
born." 

The  nurse,  watching  those  lips,  still  pale  with 
pain,  felt  a  queer  pang.  She  smoothed  the  bed- 
clothes and  said: 

"That's  nothing — it  often  happens — that  is,  I 
mean, — you  know  it  has  no  connection  what- 
ever." 

And  seeing  Gyp  smile,  she  thought:  'Well,  I  am 
a  fool.' 

"If  by  any  chance  I  don't  get  through,  I  want  to 
be  cremated;  I  want  to  go  back  as  quick  as  I  can. 
I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  the  other  thing.  Will 
you  remember,  nurse?  I  can't  tell  my  father  that 
just  now;  it  might  upset  him.    But  promise  me." 

And  the  nurse  thought:  'That  can't  be  done  with- 
out a  will  or  something,  but  I'd  better  promise. 


BEYOND  169 

It's  a  morbid  fancy,  and  yet  she's  not  a  morbid  sub- 
ject, either.'    And  she  said: 

"Very  well,  my  dear;  only,  you're  not  going  to  do 
anything  of  the  sort.     That's  flat." 

Gyp  smiled  again,  and  there  was  silence,  till  she 
said: 

"I'm  awfully  ashamed,  wanting  all  this  attention, 
and  making  people  miserable.  I've  read  that  Jap- 
anese women  quietly  go  out  somewhere  by  them- 
selves and  sit  on  a  gate." 

The  nurse,  still  busy  with  the  bedclothes,  mur- 
mured abstractedly: 

"Yes,  that's  a  very  good  way.  But  don't  you 
fancy  you're  half  the  trouble  most  of  them  are. 
You're  very  good,  and  you're  going  to  get  on  splen- 
didly." And  she  thought:  'Odd!  She's  never 
once  spoken  of  her  husband.  I  don't  like  it  for  this 
sort — too  perfect,  too  sensitive;  her  face  touches 
you  so ! ' 

Gyp  murmured  again: 

"I'd  like  to  see  my  father,  please;  and  rather 
quick." 

The  nurse,  after  one  swift  look,  went  out. 

Gyp,  who  had  clinched  her  hands  under  the  bed- 
clothes, fixed  her  eyes  on  the  window.  November ! 
Acorns  and  the  leaves — the  nice,  damp,  earthy 
smell !  Acorns  all  over  the  grass.  She  used  to 
drive  the  old  retriever  in  harness  on  the  lawn  cov- 
ered with  acorns  and  the  dead  leaves,  and  the  wind 
still  blowing  them  off  the  trees — in  her  brown  velvet 
■ — that  was  a  ducky  dress !    Who  was  it  had  called 


170  BEYOND 

her  once  "a  wise  little  owl,"  in  that  dress?  And, 
suddenly,  her  heart  sank.  The  pain  was  coming 
again.     Winton's  voice  from  the  door  said: 

"Well,  my  pet?" 

"It  was  only  to  see  how  you  are.  I'm  all  right. 
What  sort  of  a  day  is  it?  You'll  go  riding,  won't 
you?  Give  my  love  to  the  horses.  Good-bye,  Dad; 
just  for  now." 

Her  forehead  was  wet  to  his  lips. 

Outside,  in  the  passage,  her  smile,  like  something 
actual  on  the  air,  preceded  him — the  smile  that  had 
just  lasted  out.  But  when  he  was  back  in  the  study, 
he  suffered — suffered !  Why  could  he  not  have  that 
pain  to  bear  instead? 

The  crunch  of  the  brougham  brought  his  ceaseless 
march  over  the  carpet  to  an  end.  He  went  out  into 
the  hall  and  looked  into  the  doctor's  face — he  had 
forgotten  that  this  old  fellow  knew  nothing  of  his 
special  reason  for  deadly  fear.  Then  he  turned  back 
into  his  study.  The  wild  south  wind  brought  wet 
drift-leaves  whirling  against  the  panes.  It  was  here 
that  he  had  stood  looking  out  into  the  dark,  when 
Fiorsen  came  down  to  ask  for  Gyp  a  year  ago.  Why 
had  he  not  bundled  the  fellow  out  neck  and  crop, 
and  taken  her  away? — India,  Japan — anywhere 
would  have  done !  She  had  not  loved  that  fiddler, 
never  really  loved  him.  Monstrous — monstrous! 
The  full  bitterness  of  having  missed  right  action 
swept  over  Winton,  and  he  positively  groaned  aloud. 
He  moved  from  the  window  and  went  over  to  the 
bookcase;  there  in  one  row  were  the  few  books  he 


BEYOND  171 

ever  read,  and  he  took  one  out.  "Life  of  General 
Lee."  He  put  it  back  and  took  another,  a  novel  of 
Whyte  Melville's:  "Good  for  Nothing."  Sad  book 
— sad  ending!  The  book  dropped  from  his  hand 
and  fell  with  a  flump  on  the  floor.  In  a  sort  of  icy 
discovery,  he  had  seen  his  life  as  it  would  be  if  for 
a  second  time  he  had  to  bear  such  loss.  She  must 
not — could  not  die !  If  she  did — then,  for  him — ! 
In  old  times  they  buried  a  man  with  his  horse  and 
his  dog,  as  if  at  the  end  of  a  good  run.  There  was 
always  that !  The  extremity  of  this  thought  brought 
relief.  He  sat  down,  and,  for  a  long  time,  stayed 
staring  into  the  fire  in  a  sort  of  coma.  Then  his 
feverish  fears  began  again.  Why  the  devil  didn't 
they  come  and  tell  him  something,  anything — rather 
than  this  silence,  this  deadly  solitude  and  waiting? 
What  was  that  ?  The  front  door  shutting.  Wheels  ? 
Had  that  hell-hound  of  an  old  doctor  sneaked  off? 
He  started  up.  There  at  the  door  was  Markey, 
holding  in  his  hand  some  cards.  Winton  scanned 
them. 

"Lady  Summerhay;  Mr.  Bryan  Summerhay.  I 
said,  'Not  at  home,'  sir." 

Winton  nodded. 

"Well?" 

"Nothing  at  present.  You  have  had  no  lunch, 
sir." 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Four  o'clock." 

"Bring  in  my  fur  coat  and  the  port,  and  make  the 
fire  up.     I  want  any  news  there  is." 


172  BEYOND 

Markey  nodded. 

Odd  to  sit  in  a  fur  coat  before  a  fire,  and  the  day 
not  cold !  They  said  you  lived  on  after  death.  He 
had  never  been  able  to  feel  that  she  was  living  on. 
She  lived  in  Gyp.  And  now  if  Gyp — !  Death — 
your  own — no  great  matter!  But — for  her!  The 
wind  was  dropping  with  the  darkness.  He  got  up 
and  drew  the  curtains. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  when  the  doctor  came  down 
into  the  hall,  and  stood  rubbing  his  freshly  washed 
hands  before  opening  the  study  door.  Winton  was 
still  sitting  before  the  fire,  motionless,  shrunk  into 
his  fur  coat.  He  raised  himself  a  little  and  looked 
round  dully. 

The  doctor's  face  puckered,  his  eyelids  drooped 
half-way  across  his  bulging  eyes;  it  was  his  way  of 
smiling.  "Nicely,"  he  said;  "nicely — a  girl.  No 
complications." 

Winton's  whole  body  seemed  to  swell,  his  lips 
opened,  he  raised  his  hand.  Then,  the  habit  of  a 
lifetime  catching  him  by  the  throat,  he  stayed  mo- 
tionless.    At  last  he  got  up  and  said: 

"Glass  of  port,  doctor?" 

The  doctor  spying  at  him  above  the  glass  thought: 
' This  is  " the  fifty-two."  Give  me  "the  sixty-eight " 
— more  body.' 

After  a  time,  Winton  went  upstairs.  Waiting  in 
the  outer  room  he  had  a  return  of  his  cold  dread. 
"Perfectly  successful — the  patient  died  from  ex- 
haustion!" The  tiny  squawking  noise  that  fell  on 
his  ears  entirely  failed  to  reassure  him.     He  cared 


BEYOND  173 

nothing  for  that  new  being.  Suddenly  he  found 
Betty  just  behind  him,  her  bosom  heaving  hor- 
ribly. 

"  What  is  it,  woman  ?    Don't ! " 

She  had  leaned  against  his  shoulder,  appearing  to 
have  lost  all  sense  of  right  and  wrong,  and,  out  of 
her  sobbing,  gurgled: 

"She  looks  so  lovely — oh  dear,  she  looks  so 
lovely!" 

Pushing  her  abruptly  from  him,  Winton  peered 
in  through  the  just-opened  door.  Gyp  was  lying 
extremely  still,  and  very  white;  her  eyes,  very  large, 
very  dark,  were  fastened  on  her  baby.  Her  face  wore 
a  kind  of  wonder.  She  did  not  see  Winton,  who 
stood  stone-quiet,  watching,  while  the  nurse  moved 
about  her  business  behind  a  screen.  This  was  the 
first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  seen  a  mother  with 
her  just-born  baby.  That  look  on  her  face — gone 
right  away  somewhere,  right  away — amazed  him. 
She  had  never  seemed  to  like  children,  had  said  she 
did  not  want  a  child.  She  turned  her  head  and  saw 
him.  He  went  in.  She  made  a  faint  motion  toward 
the  baby,  and  her  eyes  smiled.  Winton  looked  at 
that  swaddled  speckled  mite;  then,  bending  down, 
he  kissed  her  hand  and  tiptoed  away. 

At  dinner  he  drank  champagne,  and  benevolence 
towards  all  the  world  spread  in  his  being.  Watching 
the  smoke  of  his  cigar  wreathe  about  him,  he  thought  : 
'Must  send  that  chap  a  wire.'  After  all,  he  was  a 
fellow  being — might  be  suffering,  as  he  himself  had 
suffered  only  two  hours  ago.     To  keep  him  in  igno- 


174  BEYOND 

ranee — it    wouldn't    do!    And    he    wrote  out   the 
form — 

"  All  well,  a  daughter. — Winton," 

and  sent  it  out  with  the  order  that  a  groom  should 
take  it  in  that  night. 

Gyp  was  sleeping  when  he  stole  up  at  ten  o'clock. 

He,  too,  turned  in,  and  slept  like  a  child. 


XI 

Returning  the  next  afternoon  from  the  first  ride 
for  several  days,  Winton  passed  the  station  fly  roll- 
ing away  from  the  drive-gate  with  the  light-hearted 
disillusionment  peculiar  to  quite  empty  vehicles. 

The  sight  of  a  fur  coat  and  broad-brimmed  hat  in 
the  hall  warned  him  of  what  had  happened. 

"Mr.  Fiorsen,  sir;  gone  up  to  Mrs.  Fiorsen." 

Natural,  but  a  d — d  bore!  And  bad,  perhaps, 
for  Gyp.     He  asked: 

"Did  he  bring  things?" 

"A  bag,  sir." 

"  Get  a  room  ready,  then." 

To  dine  tete-a-tete  with  that  fellow 

Gyp  had  passed  the  strangest  morning  in  her  life, 
so  far.  Her  baby  fascinated  her,  also  the  tug  of  its 
lips,  giving  her  the  queerest  sensation,  almost  sen- 
sual; a  sort  of  meltedness,  an  infinite  warmth,  a 
desire  to  grip  the  little  creature  right  into  her — 
which,  of  course,  one  must  not  do.  And  yet,  neither 
her  sense  of  humour  nor  her  sense  of  beauty  were 
deceived.  It  was  a  queer  little  affair  with  a  tuft  of 
black  hair,  in  grace  greatly  inferior  to  a  kitten.  Its 
tiny,  pink,  crisped  fingers  with  their  infinitesimal 
nails,  its  microscopic  curly  toes,  and  solemn  black 
eyes — when  they  showed,  its  inimitable  stillness 
when  it  slept,  its  incredible  vigour  when  it  fed,  were 

175 


176  BEYOND 

all,  as  it  were,  miraculous.  Withal,  she  had  a  feel- 
ing of  gratitude  to  one  that  had  not  killed  nor  even 
hurt  her  so  very  desperately — gratitude  because  she 
had  succeeded,  performed  her  part  of  mother  per- 
fectly— the  nurse  had  said  so — she,  so  distrustful  of 
herself !  Instinctively  she  knew,  too,  that  this  was 
her  baby,  not  his,  going  "to  take  after  her,"  as  they 
called  it.  How  it  succeeded  in  giving  that  impres- 
sion she  could  not  tell,  unless  it  were  the  passivity, 
and  dark  eyes  of  the  little  creature.  Then  from  one 
till  three  they  had  slept  together  with  perfect  sound- 
ness and  unanimity.  She  awoke  to  find  the  nurse 
standing  by  the  bed,  looking  as  if  she  wanted  to 
tell  her  something. 

"Someone  to  see  you,  my  dear." 

And  Gyp  thought:  'He!  I  can't  think  quickly; 
I  ought  to  think  quickly — I  want  to,  but  I  can't.' 
Her  face  expressed  this,  for  the  nurse  said  at  once: 

"I  don't  think  you're  quite  up  to  it  yet." 

Gyp  answered: 

"Yes.     Only,  not  for  five  minutes,  please." 

Her  spirit  had  been  very  far  away,  she  wanted 
time  to  get  it  back  before  she  saw  him — time  to 
know  in  some  sort  what  she  felt  now;  what  this  mite 
lying  beside  her  had  done  for  her  and  him.  The 
thought  that  it  was  his,  too — this  tiny,  helpless 
being — seemed  unreal.  No,  it  was  not  his!  He 
had  not  wanted  it,  and  now  that  she  had  been 
through  the  torture  it  was  hers,  not  his — never  his. 
The  memory  of  the  night  when  she  first  yielded  to 
the  certainty  that  the  child  was  coming,  and  he  had 


BEYOND  177 

come  home  drunk,  swooped  on  her,  and  made  her 
shrink  and  shudder  and  put  her  arm  round  her  baby. 
It  had  not  made  any  difference.  Only —  Back 
came  the  old  accusing  thought,  from  which  these 
last  days  she  had  been  free:  'But  I  married  him — I 
chose  to  marry  him.  I  can't  get  out  of  that ! '  And 
she  felt  as  if  she  must  cry  out  to  the  nurse:  "Keep 
him  away;  I  don't  want  to  see  him.  Oh,  please,  I'm 
tired."  She  bit  the  words  back.  And  presently, 
with  a  very  faint  smile,  said: 

"Now,  I'm  ready." 

She  noticed  first  what  clothes  he  had  on — his  new- 
est suit,  dark  grey,  with  little  lighter  lines — she  had 
chosen  it  herself;  that  his  tie  was  in  a  bow,  not  a 
sailor's  knot,  and  his  hair  brighter  than  usual — as 
always  just  after  being  cut;  and  surely  the  hair 
was  growing  down  again  in  front  of  his  ears.  Then, 
gratefully,  almost  with  emotion,  she  realized  that 
his  lips  were  quivering,  his  whole  face  quivering. 
He  came  in  on  tiptoe,  stood  looking  at  her  a  minute, 
then  crossed  very  swiftly  to  the  bed,  very  swiftly 
knelt  down,  and,  taking  her  hand,  turned  it  over 
and  put  his  face  to  it.  The  bristles  of  his  moustache 
tickled  her  palm;  his  nose  flattened  itself  against  her 
fingers,  and  his  lips  kept  murmuring  words  into  the 
hand,  with  the  moist  warm  touch  of  his  lips.  Gyp 
knew  he  was  burying  there  all  his  remorse,  perhaps 
the  excesses  he  had  committed  while  she  had  been 
away  from  him,  burying  the  fears  he  had  felt,  and 
the  emotion  at  seeing  her  so  white  and  still.  She 
felt  that  in  a  minute  he  would  raise  a  quite  different 


178  BEYOND 

face.  And  it  flashed  through  her:  "If  I  loved  him  I 
wouldn't  mind  what  he  did — ever!  Why  don't  I 
love  him?  There's  something  loveable.  Why  don't 
I?" 

He  did  raise  his  face;  his  eyes  lighted  on  the  baby, 
and  he  grinned. 

"Look  at  this!"  he  said.  "Is  it  possible?  Oh, 
my  Gyp,  what  a  funny  one!  Oh,  oh,  oh!"  He 
went  off  into  an  ecstasy  of  smothered  laughter;  then 
his  face  grew  grave,  and  slowly  puckered  into  a 
sort  of  comic  disgust.  Gyp  too  had  seen  the  hu- 
mours of  her  baby,  of  its  queer  little  reddish  pudge 
of  a  face,  of  its  twenty-seven  black  hairs,  and  the 
dribble  at  its  almost  invisible  mouth;  but  she  had 
also  seen  it  as  a  miracle;  she  had  felt  it,  and  there 
surged  up  from  her  all  the  old  revolt  and  more 
against  his  lack  of  consideration.  It  was  not  a 
funny  one — her  baby !  It  was  not  ugly !  Or,  if  it 
were,  she  was  not  fit  to  be  told  of  it.  Her  arm  tight- 
ened round  the  warm  bundled  thing  against  her. 
Fiorsen  put  his  finger  out  and  touched  its  cheek. 

"Itsisreal — so  it  is.  Mademoiselle  Fiorsen.  Tk, 
tk!" 

The  baby  stirred.  And  Gyp  thought:  'If  I  loved 
I  wouldn't  even  mind  his  laughing  at  my  baby.  It 
would  be  different.' 

"Don't  wake  her!"  she  whispered.  She  felt  his 
eyes  on  her,  knew  that  his  interest  in  the  baby  had 
ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  came,  that  he  was  thinking, 
"How  long  before  I  have  you  in  my  arms  again?" 
He  touched  her  hair.     And,  suddenly,  she  had  a 


BEYOND  179 

fainting,  sinking  sensation  that  she  had  never  yet 
known.  When  she  opened  her  eyes  again,  the  eco- 
nomic agent  was  holding  something  beneath  her 
nose  and  making  sounds  that  seemed  to  be  the 
words:  "Well,  I  am  a  d — d  fool!"  repeatedly  ex- 
pressed.    Fiorsen  was  gone. 

Seeing  Gyp's  eyes  once  more  open,  the  nurse  with- 
drew the  ammonia,  replaced  the  baby,  and  saying: 
"Now  go  to  sleep!"  withdrew  behind  the  screen. 
Like  all  robust  personalities,  she  visited  on  others 
her  vexations  with  herself.  But  Gyp  did  not  go  to 
sleep;  she  gazed  now  at  her  sleeping  baby,  now  at 
the  pattern  of  the  wall-paper,  trying  mechanically 
to  find  the  bird  caught  at  intervals  amongst  its 
brown-and-green  foliage — one  bird  in  each  alternate 
square  of  the  pattern,  so  that  there  was  always  a 
bird  in  the  centre  of  four  other  birds.  And  the  bird 
was  of  green  and  yellow  with  a  red  beak. 

On  being  turned  out  of  the  nursery  with  the 
assurance  that  it  was  "all  right — only  a  little  faint," 
Fiorsen  went  down-stairs  disconsolate.  The  at- 
mosphere of  this  dark  house  where  he  was  a  stranger, 
an  unwelcome  stranger,  was  insupportable.  He 
wanted  nothing  in  it  but  Gyp,  and  Gyp  had  fainted 
at  his  touch.  No  wonder  he  felt  miserable.  He 
opened  a  door.  What  room  was  this  ?  A  piano ! 
The  drawing-room.  Ugh !  No  fire — what  misery ! 
He  recoiled  to  the  doorway  and  stood  listening. 
Not  a  sound.  Grey  light  in  the  cheerless  room; 
almost  dark  already  in  the  hall  behind  him.    What 


180  BEYOND 

a  life  these  English  lived — worse  than  the  winter 
in  his  old  country  home  in  Sweden,  where,  at  all 
events,  they  kept  good  fires.  And,  suddenly,  all 
his  being  revolted.  Stay  here  and  face  that  father 
— and  that  image  of  a  servant!  Stay  here  for  a 
night  of  this !  Gyp  was  not  his  Gyp,  lying  there 
with  that  baby  beside  her,  in  this  hostile  house. 
Smothering  his  footsteps,  he  made  for  the  outer 
hall.  There  were  his  coat  and  hat.  He  put  them 
on.  His  bag?  He  could  not  see  it.  No  matter! 
They  could  send  it  after  him.  He  would  write  to 
her — say  that  her  fainting  had  upset  him — that 
he  could  not  risk  making  her  faint  again — could 
not  stay  in  the  house  so  near  her,  yet  so  far.  She 
would  understand.  And  there  came  over  him  a 
sudden  wave  of  longing.  Gyp !  He  wanted  her. 
To  be  with  her !  To  look  at  her  and  kiss  her,  and 
feel  her  his  own  again !  And,  opening  the '  door, 
he  passed  out  on  to  the  drive  and  strode  away, 
miserable  and  sick  at  heart.  All  the  way  to  the 
station  through  the  darkening  lanes,  and  in  the 
railway  carriage  going  up,  he  felt  that  aching 
wretchedness.  Only  in  the  lighted  street,  driving 
back  to  Rosek's,  did  he  shake  it  off  a  little.  At 
dinner  and  after,  drinking  that  special  brandy  he 
nearly  lost  it;  but  it  came  back  when  he  went  to 
bed,  till  sleep  relieved  him  with  its  darkness  and 
dreams. 


xn 

Gyp's  recovery  proceeded  at  first  with  a  sure 
rapidity  which  delighted  Winton.  As  the  economic, 
agent  pointed  out,  she  was  beautifully  made,  and 
that  had  a  lot  to  do  with  it ! 

Before  Christmas  Day,  she  was  already  out,  and 
on  Christmas  morning  the  old  doctor,  by  way  of 
present,  pronounced  her  fit  and  ready  to  go  home 
when  she  liked.  That  afternoon,  she  was  not  so 
well,  and  next  day  back  again  upstairs.  Nothing 
seemed  definitely  wrong,  only  a  sort  of  desperate 
lassitude;  as  if  the  knowledge  that  to  go  back  was 
within  her  power,  only  needing  her  decision,  had 
been  too  much  for  her.  And  since  no  one  knew  her 
inward  feelings,  all  were  puzzled  except  Winton. 
The  nursing  of  her  child  was  promptly  stopped. 

It  was  not  till  the  middle  of  January  that  she 
said  to  him: 

"I  must  go  home,  Dad." 

The  word  "home"  hurt  him,  and  he  only  an- 
swered: 

"Very  well,  Gyp;  when?" 

"The  house  is  quite  ready.  I  think  I  had  better 
go  to-morrow.  He's  still  at  Rosek's.  I  won't  let 
him  know.  Two  or  three  days  there  by  myself 
first  would  be  better  for  settling  baby  in." 

181 


1 82  BEYOND 

"Very  well;   I'll  take  you  up." 

He  made  no  effort  to  ascertain  her  feelings  to- 
ward Fiorsen.    He  knew  too  well. 

They  travelled  next  day,  reaching  London  at 
half -past  two.  Betty  had  gone  up  in  the  early 
morning  to  prepare  the  way.  The  dogs  had  been 
with  Aunt  Rosamund  all  this  time.  Gyp  missed 
their  greeting;  but  the  installation  of  Betty  and 
the  baby  in  the  spare  room  that  was  now  to  be  the 
nursery,  absorbed  all  her  first  energies.  Light  was 
just  beginning  to  fail  when,  still  in  her  fur,  she  took 
a  key  of  the  music-room  and  crossed  the  garden, 
to  see  how  all  had  fared  during  her  ten  weeks'  ab- 
sence. What  a  wintry  garden!  How  different 
from  that  languorous,  warm,  moonlit  night  when 
Daphne  Wing  had  come  dancing  out  of  the  shadow 
of  the  dark  trees.  How  bare  and  sharp  the  boughs 
against  the  grey,  darkening  sky — and  not  a  song 
of  any  bird,  not  a  flower!  She  glanced  back  at 
the  house.  Cold  and  white  it  looked,  but  there 
were  lights  in  her  room  and  in  the  nursery,  and 
someone  just  drawing  the  curtains.  Now  that 
the  leaves  were  off,  one  could  see  the  other  houses 
of  the  road,  each  different  in  shape  and  colour,  as 
is  the  habit  of  London  houses.  It  was  cold,  frosty; 
Gyp  hurried  down  the  path.  Four  little  icicles  had 
formed  beneath  the  window  of  the  music-room. 
They  caught  her  eye,  and,  passing  round  to  the 
side,  she  broke  one  off.  There  must  be  a  fire  in 
there,  for  she  could  see  the  flicker  through  the  cur- 
tains not  quite  drawn.    Thoughtful  Ellen  had  been 


BEYOND  183 

airing  it !  But,  suddenly,  she  stood  still.  There 
was  more  than  a  fire  in  there !  Through  the  chink 
in  the  drawn  curtains  she  had  seen  two  figures 
seated  on  the  divan.  Something  seemed  to  spin 
round  in  her  head.  She  turned  to  rush  away.  Then 
a  kind  of  superhuman  coolness  came  to  her,  and 
she  deliberately  looked  in.  He  and  Daphne  Wing ! 
His  arm  was  round  her  neck.  The  girl's  face  riv- 
eted her  eyes.  It  was  turned  a  little  back  and  up, 
gazing  at  him,  the  lips  parted,  the  eyes  hypnotized, 
adoring;  and  her  arm  round  him  seemed  to  shiver 
— with  cold,  with  ecstasy? 

Again  that  something  went  spinning  through 
Gyp's  head.  She  raised  her  hand.  For  a  second 
it  hovered  close  to  the  glass.  Then,  with  a  sick 
feeling,  she  dropped  it  and  turned  away. 

Never!  Never  would  she  show  him  or  that  girl 
that  they  could  hurt  her!  Never!  They  were 
safe  from  any  scene  she  would  make — safe  in  their 
nest !  And  blindly,  across  the  frosty  grass,  through 
the  unlighted.  drawing-room,  she  went  upstairs  to 
her  room,  locked  the  door,  and  sat  down  before  the 
fire.  Pride  raged  within  her.  She  stuffed  her  hand- 
kerchief between  her  teeth  and  lips;  she  did  it  un- 
consciously. Her  eyes  felt  scorched  from  the  fire- 
flames,  but  she  did  not  trouble  to  hold  her  hand 
before  them. 

Suddenly  she  thought:  'Suppose  I  had  loved 
him?'  and  laughed.  The  handkerchief  dropped  to 
her  lap,  and  she  looked  at  it  with  wonder — it  was 
blood-stained.     She  drew  back  in  the  chair,  away 


1 84  BEYOND 

from  the  scorching  of  the  fire,  and  sat  quite  still,  a 
smile  on  her  lips.  That  girl's  eyes,  like  a  little 
adoring  dog's — that  girl,  who  had  fawned  on  her 
so!  She  had  got  her  "distinguished  man"!  She 
sprang  up  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass;  shud- 
dered, turned  her  back  on  herself,  and  sat  down 
again.  In  her  own  house !  Why  not  here — in  this 
room?  Why  not  before  her  eyes?  Not  yet  a  year 
married!  It  was  almost  funny — almost  funny! 
And  she  had  her  first  calm  thought:   £I  am  free.' 

But  it  did  not  seem  to  mean  anything,  had  no 
value  to  a  spirit  so  bitterly  stricken  in  its  pride. 
She  moved  her  chair  closer  to  the  fire  again.  Why 
had  she  not  tapped  on  the  window?  To  have  seen 
that  girl's  face  ashy  with  fright!  To  have  seen 
him — caught — caught  in  the  room  she  had  made 
beautiful  for  him,  the  room  where  she  had  played 
for  him  so  many  hours,  the  room  that  was  part  of 
the  house  that  she  paid  for!  How  long  had  they 
used  it  for  their  meetings — sneaking  in  by  that 
door  from  the  back  lane?  Perhaps  even  before  she 
went  away — to  bear  his  child!  And  there  began 
in  her  a  struggle  between  mother  instinct  and  her 
sense  of  outrage — a  spiritual  tug-of-war  so  deep  that 
it  was  dumb,  unconscious — to  decide  whether  her 
baby  would  be  all  hers,  or  would  have  slipped 
away  from  her  heart,  and  be  a  thing  almost  ab- 
horrent. 

She  huddled  nearer  the  fire,  feeling  cold  and 
physically  sick.  And  suddenly  the  thought  came 
to  her:   'If  I  don't  let  the  servants  know  I'm  here, 


BEYOND  185 

they  might  go  out  and  see  what  I  saw ! '  Had  she 
shut  the  drawing-room  window  when  she  returned 
so  blindly?  Perhaps  already — !  In  a  fever,  she 
rang  the  bell,  and  unlocked  the  door.  The  maid 
came  up. 

"Please  shut  the  drawing-room  window,  Ellen; 
and  tell  Betty  I'm  afraid  I  got  a  little  chill  travelling. 
I'm  going  to  bed.  Ask  her  if  she  can  manage  with 
baby."  And  she  looked  straight  into  the  girl's 
face.  It  wore  an  expression  of  concern,  even  of 
commiseration,  but  not  that  fluttered  look  which 
must  have  been  there  if  she  had  known. 

"Yes,  m'm;  I'll  get  you  a  hot-water  bottle,  m'm. 
Would  you  like  a  hot  bath  and  a  cup  of  hot  tea  at 
once?" 

Gyp  nodded.  Anything — anything!  And  when 
the  maid  was  gone,  she  thought  mechanically: 
'A  cup  of  hot  tea!  How  quaint!  What  should  it 
be  but  hot?' 

The  maid  came  back  with  the  tea;  she  was  an 
affectionate  girl,  full  of  that  admiring  love  servants 
and  dogs  always  felt  for  Gyp,  imbued,  too,  with 
the  instinctive  partisanship  which  stores  itself  one 
way  or  the  other  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  live  in 
houses  where  the  atmosphere  lacks  unity.  To  her 
mind,  the  mistress  was  much  too  good  for  him — a 
foreigner — and  such  'abits!  Manners — he  hadn't 
any !  And  no  good  would  come  of  it.  Not  if  you 
took  her  opinion ! 

"And  I've  turned  the  water  in,  m'm.  Will  you 
have  a  little  mustard  in  it?" 


1 86  BEYOND 

Again  Gyp  nodded.  And  the  girl,  going  down- 
stairs for  the  mustard,  told  cook  there  was  "that 
about  the  mistress  that  makes  you  quite  pathetic." 
The  cook,  who  was  fingering  her  concertina,  for 
which  she  had  a  passion,  answered: 

"She  'ides  up  her  feelin's,  same  as  they  all  does. 
Thank  'eaven  she  haven't  got  that  drawl,  though, 
that  'er  old  aunt  'as — always  makes  me  feel  to  want 
to  say,  'Buck  up,  old  dear,  you  ain't  'alf  so  precious 
as  all  that !'  " 

And  when  the  maid  Ellen  had  taken  the  mustard 
and  gone,  she  drew  out  her  concertina  to  its  full 
length  and,  with  cautionary  softness,  began  to  prac- 
tise "Home,  Sweet  Home!" 

To  Gyp,  lying  in  her  hot  bath,  those  muffled 
strains  just  mounted,  not  quite  as  a  tune,  rather  as 
some  far-away  humming  of  large  flies.  The  heat  of 
the  water,  the  pungent  smell  of  the  mustard,  and 
that  droning  hum  slowly  soothed  and  drowsed  away 
the  vehemence  of  feeling.  She  looked  at  her  body, 
silver-white  in  the  yellowish  water,  with  a  dreamy 
sensation.  Some  day  she,  too,  would  love !  Strange 
feeling  she  had  never  had  before !  Strange,  indeed, 
that  it  should  come  at  such  a  moment,  breaking 
through  the  old  instinctive  shrinking.  Yes;  some 
day  love  would  come  to  her.  There  floated  before 
her  brain  the  adoring  look  on  Daphne  Wing's  face, 
the  shiver  that  had  passed  along  her  arm,  and  piti- 
fulness  crept  into  her  heart — a  half-bitter,  half-ad- 
miring pitifulness.  Why  should  she  grudge — she 
who  did  not  love?    The  sounds,  like  the  humming 


BEYOND  187 

of  large  flies,  grew  deeper,  more  vibrating.  It  was 
the  cook,  in  her  passion  swelling  out  her  music  on 
the  phrase, 

"Be  it  ne-e-ver  so  humble, 
There's  no-o  place  like  home !" 


xm 

That  night,  Gyp  slept  peacefully,  as  though  noth- 
ing had  happened,  as  though  there  were  no  future 
at  all  before  her.  She  woke  into  misery.  Her  pride 
would  never  let  her  show  the  world  what  she  had 
discovered,  would  force  her  to  keep  an  unmoved 
face  and  live  an  unmoved  life.  But  the  struggle 
between  mother-instinct  and  revolt  was  still  going 
on  within  her.  She  was  really  afraid  to  see  her 
baby,  and  she  sent  word  to  Betty  that  she  thought 
it  would  be  safer  if  she  kept  quite  quiet  till  the  after- 
noon. 

She  got  up  at  noon  and  stole  downstairs.  She 
had  not  realized  how  violent  was  her  struggle  over 
his  child  till  she  was  passing  the  door  of  the  room 
where  it  was  lying.  If  she  had  not  been  ordered  to 
give  up  nursing,  that  struggle  would  never  have 
come.  Her  heart  ached,  but  a  demon  pressed  her 
on  and  past  the  door.  Downstairs  she  just  pottered 
round,  dusting  her  china,  putting  in  order  the  books 
which,  after  house-cleaning,  the  maid  had  arranged 
almost  too  carefully,  so  that  the  first  volumes  of 
Dickens  and  Thackeray  followed  each  other  on  the 
top  shelf,  and  the  second  volumes  followed  each 
other  on  the  bottom  shelf.  And  all  the  time  she 
thought  dully:  'Why  am  I  doing  this?  What  do  I 
care  how  the  place  looks?  It  is  not  my  home.  It 
can  never  be  my  home ! ' 


BEYOND  189 

For  lunch  she  drank  some  beef  tea,  keeping  up 
the  fiction  of  her  indisposition.  After  that,  she  sat 
down  at  her  bureau  to  write.  Something  must  be 
decided !  There  she  sat,  her  forehead  on  her  hand, 
and  nothing  came — not  one  word — not  even  the 
way  to  address  him;  just  the  date,  and  that  was  all. 
At  a  ring  of  the  bell  she  started  up.  She  could  not 
see  anybody !  But  the  maid  only  brought  a  note 
from  Aunt  Rosamund,  and  the  dogs,  who  fell  franti- 
cally on  their  mistress  and  instantly  began  to  fight 
for  her  possession.  She  went  on  her  knees  to  sep- 
arate them,  and  enjoin  peace  and  good-will,  and 
their  little  avid  tongues  furiously  licked  her  cheeks. 
Under  the  eager  touch  of  those  wet  tongues  the 
band  round  her  brain  and  heart  gave  way;  she  was 
overwhelmed  with  longing  for  her  baby.  Nearly  a 
day  since  she  had  seen  her — was  it  possible  ?  Nearly 
a  day  without  sight  of  those  solemn  eyes  and  crinkled 
toes  and  fingers!  And  followed  by  the  dogs,  she 
went  upstairs. 

The  house  was  invisible  from  the  music-room;  and, 
spurred  on  by  thought  that,  until  Fiorsen  knew  she 
was  back,  those  two  might  be  there  in  each  other's 
arms  any  moment  of  the  day  or  night,  Gyp  wrote 
that  evening: 

"Dear  Gustav, — We  are  back. — Gyp." 

What  else  in  the  world  could  she  say  ?  He  would 
not  get  it  till  he  woke  about  eleven.  With  the  in- 
stinct to  take  all  the  respite  she  could,  and  knowing 
no  more  than  before  how  she  would  receive  his  re- 


190  BEYOND 

turn,  she  went  out  in  the  forenoon  and  wandered 
about  all  day  shopping  and  trying  not  to  think. 
Returning  at  tea-time,  she  went  straight  up  to  her 
baby,  and  there  heard  from  Betty  that  he  had  come, 
and  gone  out  with  his  violin  to  the  music-room. 

Bent  over  the  child,  Gyp  needed  all  her  self-con- 
trol— but  her  self-control  was  becoming  great.  Soon, 
the  girl  would  come  fluttering  down  that  dark,  nar- 
row lane;  perhaps  at  this  very  minute  her  fingers 
were  tapping  at  the  door,  and  he  was  opening  it  to 
murmur,  "No;  she's  back!"  Ah,  then  the  girl 
would  shrink!  The  rapid  whispering — some  other 
meeting-place!  Lips  to  lips,  and  that  look  on  the 
girl's  face;  till  she  hurried  away  from  the  shut  door, 
in  the  darkness,  disappointed!  And  he,  on  that 
silver-and-gold  divan,  gnawing  his  moustache,  his 
eyes — catlike — staring  at  the  fire!  And  then,  per- 
haps, from  his  violin  would  come  one  of  those  sway- 
ing bursts  of  sound,  with  tears  in  them,  and  the 
wind  in  them,  that  had  of  old  bewitched  her !  She 
said: 

"Open  the  window  just  a  little,  Betty  dear — it's 
hot." 

There  it  was,  rising,  falling!  Music!  Why  did 
it  so  move  one  even  when,  as  now,  it  was  the  voice 
of  insult!  And  suddenly  she  thought:  "He  will 
expect  me  to  go  out  there  again  and  play  for  him. 
But  I  will  not,  never ! " 

She  put  her  baby  down,  went  into  her  bedroom, 
and  changed  hastily  into  a  teagown  for  the  evening, 
ready   to  go   downstairs.     A  little  shepherdess  in 


BEYOND  191 

china  on  the  mantel-shelf  attracted  her  attention, 
and  she  took  it  in  her  hand.  She  had  bought  it 
three  and  more  years  ago,  when  she  first  came  to 
London,  at  the  beginning  of  that  time  of  girl-gaiety 
when  all  life  seemed  a  long  cotillon,  and  she  its 
leader.  Its  cool  daintiness  made  it  seem  the  sym- 
bol of  another  world,  a  world  without  depths  or 
shadows,  a  world  that  did  not  feel — a  happy  world ! 

She  had  not  long  to  wait  before  he  tapped  on  the 
drawing-room  window.  She  got  up  from  the  tea- 
table  to  let  him  in.  Why  do  faces  gazing  in  through 
glass  from  darkness  always  look  hungry — searching, 
appealing  for  what  you  have  and  they  have  not? 
And  while  she  was  undoing  the  latch  she  thought: 
'  What  am  I  going  to  say  ?  I  feel  nothing ! '  The 
ardour  of  his  gaze,  voice,  hands  seemed  to  her  so  false 
as  to  be  almost  comic;  even  more  comically  false 
his  look  of  disappointment  when  she  said : 

"Please  take  care;  I'm  still  brittle!"  Then  she 
sat  down  again  and  asked: 

"Will  you  have  some  tea?" 

"Tea!  I  have  you  back,  and  you  ask  me  if  I 
will  have  tea !  Gyp !  Do  you  know  what  I  have 
felt  like  all  this  time?  No;  you  don't  know.  You 
know  nothing  of  me — do  you?" 

A  smile  of  sheer  irony  formed  on  her  lips — without 
her  knowing  it  was  there.     She  said: 

"Have  you  had  a  good  time  at  Count  Rosek's?* 
And,  without  her  will,  against  her  will,  the  words 
slipped  out:  "I'm  afraid  you've  missed  the  music- 
room  ! " 


192  BEYOND 

His  stare  wavered;  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down. 

"  Missed !  Missed  everything !  I  have  been  very 
miserable.  Gyp.  You've  no  idea  how  miserable. 
Yes,  miserable,  miserable,  miserable!"  With  each 
repetition  of  that  word,  his  voice  grew  gayer.  And 
kneeling  down  in  front  of  her,  he  stretched  his  long 
arms  round  her  till  they  met  behind  her  waist:  "Ah, 
my  Gyp !    I  shall  be  a  different  being,  now." 

And  Gyp  went  on  smiling.  Between  that,  and 
stabbing  these  false  raptures  to  the  heart,  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing  she  could  do.  The  moment 
his  hands  relaxed,  she  got  up  and  said: 

"You  know  there's  a  baby  in  the  house?" 

He  laughed. 

"Ah,  the  baby!  I'd  forgotten.  Let's  go  up  and 
see  it." 

Gyp  answered: 

"You  go." 

She  could  feel  him  thinking:  'Perhaps  it  will  make 
her  nice  to  me  ! '     He  turned  suddenly  and  went. 

She  stood  with  her  eyes  shut,  seeing  the  divan  in 
the  music-room  and  the  girl's  arm  shivering.  Then, 
going  to  the  piano,  she  began  with  all  her  might  to 
play  a  Chopin  polonaise. 

That  evening  they  dined  out,  and  went  to  "The 
Tales  of  Hoffmann."  By  such  devices  it  was  possi- 
ble to  put  off  a  little  longer  what  she  was  going  to 
do.  During  the  drive  home  in  the  dark  cab,  she 
shrank  away  into  her  corner,  pretending  that  his 
arm  would  hurt  her  dress;  her  exasperated  nerves 
were  already  overstrung.    Twice  she  was  on  the 


BEYOND  193 

very  point  of  crying  out:  "  I  am  not  Daphne  Wing  ! " 
But  each  time  pride  strangled  the  words  in  her 
throat.  And  yet  they  would  have  to  come.  What 
other  reason  could  she  find  to  keep  him  from  her 
room? 

But  when  in  her  mirror  she  saw  him  standing 
behind  her — he  had  crept  into  the  bedroom  like  a 
cat — fierceness  came  into  her.  She  could  see  the 
blood  rush  up  in  her  own  white  face,  and,  turning 
round  she  said: 

"No,  Gustav,  go  out  to  the  music-room  if  you 
want  a  companion." 

He  recoiled  against  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  stared 
at  her  haggardly,  and  Gyp,  turning  back  to  her 
mirror,  went  on  quietly  taking  the  pins  out  of  her 
hair.  For  fully  a  minute  she  could  see  him  leaning 
there,  moving  his  head  and  hands  as  though  in  pain. 
Then,  to  her  surprise,  he  went.  And  a  vague  feeling 
of  compunction  mingled  with  her  sense  of  deliver- 
ance. She  lay  awake  a  long  time,  watching  the 
fire-glow  brighten  and  darken  on  the  ceiling,  tunes 
from  "The  Tales  of  Hoffmann"  running  in  her  head; 
thoughts  and  fancies  crisscrossing  in  her  excited 
brain.  Falling  asleep  at  last,  she  dreamed  she  was 
feeding  doves  out  of  her  hand,  and  one  of  them  was 
Daphne  Wing.  She  woke  with  a  start.  The  fire 
still  burned,  and  by  its  light  she  saw  him  crouching 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  just  as  he  had  on  their  wed- 
ding-night— the  same  hungry  yearning  in  his  face, 
and  an  arm  outstretched.  Before  she  could  speak, 
he  began: 


194  BEYOND 

"Oh,  Gyp,  you  don't  understand!  All  that  is 
nothing — it  is  only  you  I  want — always.  I  am  a 
fool  who  cannot  control  himself.  Think!  It's  a 
long  time  since  you  went  away  from  me." 

Gyp  said,  in  a  hard  voice: 

"I  didn't  want  to  have  a  child." 

He  said  quickly: 

"No;  but  now  you  have  it  you  are  glad.  Don't 
be  unmerciful,  my  Gyp !  It  is  like  you  to  be  mer- 
ciful. That  girl — it  is  all  over — I  swear — I  prom- 
ise." 

His  hand  touched  her  foot  through  the  soft  eider- 
down. Gyp  thought:  'Why  does  he  come  and 
whine  to  me  like  this  ?  He  has  no  dignity — none ! ' 
And  she  said: 

"How  can  you  promise?  You  have  made  the 
girl  love  you.    I  saw  her  face." 

He  drew  his  hand  back. 

"You  saw  her?" 

"Yes." 

He  was  silent,  staring  at  her.  Presently  he  be- 
gan again: 

"  She  is  a  little  fool.  I  do  not  care  for  the  whole 
of  her  as  much  as  I  care  for  your  one  finger.  What 
does  it  matter  what  one  does  in  that  way  if  one 
does  not  care?  The  soul,  not  the  body,  is  faithful. 
A  man  satisfies  appetite — it  is  nothing." 

Gyp  said: 

"Perhaps  not:  but  it  is  something  when  it  makes 
others  miserable." 

"Has  it  made  you  miserable,  my  Gyp?" 


BEYOND  195 

His  voice  had  a  ring  of  hope.  She  answered, 
startled : 

"I?    No— her." 

"Her?  Ho!  It  is  an  experience  for  her — it  is 
life.    It  will  do  her  no  harm." 

"No;  nothing  will  do  anybody  harm  if  it  gives 
you  pleasure. " 

At  that  bitter  retort,  he  kept  silence  a  long  time, 
now  and  then  heaving  a  long  sigh.  His  words  kept 
sounding  in  her  heart:  "The  soul,  not  the  body,  is 
faithful."  Was  he,  after  all,  more  faithful  to  her 
than  she  had  ever  been,  could  ever  be — who  did 
not  love,  had  never  loved  him?  What  right  had 
she  to  talk,  who  had  married  him  out  of  vanity, 
out  of — what? 

And  suddenly  he  said: 

"Gyp!    Forgive!" 

She  uttered  a  sigh,  and  turned  away  her  face. 

He  bent  down  against  the  eider-down.  She 
could  hear  him  drawing  long,  sobbing  breaths,  and, 
in  the  midst  of  her  lassitude  and  hopelessness,  a 
sort  of  pity  stirred  her.  What  did  it  matter?  She 
said,  in  a  choked  voice: 

"Very  well,  I  forgive." 


XIV 

The  human  creature  has  wonderful  power  of 
putting  up  with  things.  Gyp  never  really  believed 
that  Daphne  Wing  was  of  the  past.  Her  sceptical 
instinct  told  her  that  what  Fiorsen  might  honestly 
mean  to  do  was  very  different  from  what  he  would 
do  under  stress  of  opportunity  carefully  put  within 
his  reach. 

Since  her  return,  Rosek  had  begun  to  come  again, 
very  careful  not  to  repeat  his  mistake,  but  not  de- 
ceiving her  at  all.  Though  his  self-control  was  as 
great  as  Fiorsen's  was  small,  she  felt  he  had  not 
given  up  his  pursuit  of  her,  and  would  take  very 
good  care  that  Daphne  Wing  was  afforded  every 
chance  of  being  with  her  husband.  But  pride  never 
let  her  allude  to  the  girl.  Besides,  what  good  to 
speak  of  her?  They  would  both  lie — Rosek,  be- 
cause he  obviously  saw  the  mistaken  line  of  his 
first  attack;  Fiorsen,  because  his  temperament  did 
not  permit  him  to  suffer  by  speaking  the  truth. 

Having  set  herself  to  endure,  she  found  she  must 
live  in  the  moment,  never  think  of  the  future,  never 
think  much  of  anything.  Fortunately,  nothing  so 
conduces  to  vacuity  as  a  baby.  She  gave  herself 
up  to  it  with  desperation.  It  was  a  good  baby, 
silent,  somewhat  understanding.     In  watching  its 

196 


BEYOND  197 

face,  and  feeling  it  warm  against  her,  Gyp  suc- 
ceeded daily  in  getting  away  into  the  hypnotic  state 
of  mothers,  and  cows  that  chew  the  cud.  But  the 
baby  slept  a  great  deal,  and  much  of  its  time  was 
claimed  by  Betty.  Those  hours,  and  they  were 
many,  Gyp  found  difficult.  She  had  lost  interest 
in  dress  and  household  elegance,  keeping  just  enough 
to  satisfy  her  fastidiousness;  money,  too,  was 
scarce,  under  the  drain  of  Fiorsen's  irregular  re- 
quirements. If  she  read,  she  began  almost  at  once 
to  brood.  She  was  cut  off  from  the  music-room, 
had  not  crossed  its  threshold  since  her  discovery. 
Aunt  Rosamund's  efforts  to  take  her  into  society 
were  fruitless — all  the  effervescence  was  out  of  that, 
and,  though  her  father  came,  he  never  stayed  long 
for  fear  of  meeting  Fiorsen.  In  this  condition  of 
affairs,  she  turned  more  and  more  to  her  own  music, 
and  one  morning,  after  she  had  come  across  some 
compositions  of  her  girlhood,  she  made  a  resolu- 
tion. That  afternoon  she  dressed  herself  with 
pleasure,  for  the  first  time  for  months,  and  sallied 
forth  into  the  February  frost. 

Monsieur  Edouard  Harmost  inhabited  the  ground 
floor  of  a  house  in  the  Marylebone  Road.  He  re- 
ceived his  pupils  in  a  large  back  room  overlooking 
a  little  sooty  garden.  A  Walloon  by  extraction, 
and  of  great  vitality,  he  grew  old  with  difficulty, 
having  a  soft  corner  in  his  heart  for  women,  and  a 
passion  for  novelty,  even  for  new  music,  that  was 
unappeasable.  Any  fresh  discovery  would  bring  a 
tear  rolling   down   his  mahogany   cheeks  into   his 


198  BEYOND 

clipped  grey  beard,  the  while  he  played,  singing 
wheezily  to  elucidate  the  wondrous  novelty,  or 
moved  his  head  up  and  down,  as  if  pumping. 

When  Gyp  was  shown  into  this  well-remembered 
room  he  was  seated,  his  yellow  fingers  buried  in 
his  stiff  grey  hair,  grieving  over  a  pupil  who  had 
just  gone  out.  He  did  not  immediately  rise,  but 
stared  hard  at  Gyp. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  at  last,  "my  little  old  friend! 
She  has  come  back!  Now  that  is  good!"  And, 
patting  her  hand  he  looked  into  her  face,  which 
had  a  warmth  and  brilliance  rare  to  her  in  these 
days.  Then,  making  for  the  mantelpiece,  he  took 
therefrom  a  bunch  of  Parma  violets,  evidently 
brought  by  his  last  pupil,  and  thrust  them  under 
her  nose.  "Take  them,  take  them — they  were 
meant  for  me.  Now — how  much  have  you  for- 
gotten? Come!"  And,  seizing  her  by  the  elbow, 
he  almost  forced  her  to  the  piano.  "Take  off  your 
furs.    Sit  down !" 

And  while  Gyp  was  taking  off  her  coat,  he  fixed 
on  her  his  prominent  brown  eyes  that  rolled  easily 
in  their  slightly  blood-shot  whites,  under  squared 
eyelids  and  cliffs  of  brow.  She  had  on  what  Fiorsen 
called  her  "humming-bird"  blouse — dark  blue,  shot 
with  peacock  and  old  rose,  and  looked  very  warm 
and  soft  under  her  fur  cap.  Monsieur  Harmost's 
stare  seemed  to  drink  her  in ;  yet  that  stare  was  not 
unpleasant,  having  in  it  only  the  rather  sad  yearn- 
ing of  old  men  who  love  beauty  and  know  that 
their  time  for  seeing  it  is  getting  short. 


BEYOND  199 

"Play  me  the  'Carnival,'  "  he  said.  "We  shall 
soon  see !" 

Gyp  played.  Twice  he  nodded;  once  he  tapped 
his  fingers  on  his  teeth,  and  showed  her  the  whites 
of  his  eyes — which  meant:  "That  will  have  to  be 
very  different!"  And  once  he  grunted.  When 
she  had  finished,  he  sat  down  beside  her,  took  her 
hand  in  his,  and,  examining  the  fingers,  began: 

"Yes,  yes,  soon  again!  Spoiling  yourself,  play- 
ing for  that  fiddler !  Trop  sympathique!  The  back- 
bone, the  back-bone — we  shall  improve  that.  Now, 
four  hours  a  day  for  six  weeks — and  we  shall  have 
something  again." 

Gyp  said  softly: 

"I  have  a  baby,  Monsieur  Harmost." 

Monsieur  Harmost  bounded. 

"What!  That  is  a  tragedy!"  Gyp  shook  her 
head.  "You  like  it?  A  baby!  Does  it  not 
squall?" 

"Very  little." 

"Mon  Dieu!  Well,  well,  you  are  still  as  beau- 
tiful as  ever.  That  is  something.  Now,  what  can 
you  do  with  this  baby?  Could  you  get  rid  of  it  a 
little?  This  is  serious.  This  is  a  talent  in  danger. 
A  fiddler,  and  a  baby !    Cest  beaucoup !    C'est  trop ! " 

Gyp  smiled.  And  Monsieur  Harmost,  whose 
exterior  covered  much  sensibility,  stroked  her  hand. 

"You  have  grown  up,  my  little  friend,"  he  said 
gravely.  "Never  mind;  nothing  is  wasted.  But 
a  baby !"  And  he  chirruped  his  lips.  "Well;  cour- 
age !    We  shall  do  things  yet !" 


200  BEYOND 

Gyp  turned  her  head  away  to  hide  the  quiver 
of  her  lips.  The  scent  of  latakia  tobacco  that  had 
soaked  into  things,  and  of  old  books  and  music,  a 
dark  smell,  like  Monsieur  Harmost's  complexion; 
the  old  brown  curtains,  the  sooty  little  back  gar- 
den beyond,  with  its  cat-runs,  and  its  one  stunted 
sumach  tree;  the  dark-brown  stare  of  Monsieur 
Harmost's  rolling  eyes  brought  back  that  time  of 
happiness,  when  she  used  to  come  week  after  week, 
full  of  gaiety  and  importance,  and  chatter  away, 
basking  in  his  brusque  admiration  and  in  music, 
all  with  the  glamourous  feeling  that  she  was  making 
him  happy,  and  herself  happy,  and  going  to  play 
very  finely  some  day. 

The  voice  of  Monsieur  Harmost,  softly  gruff,  as 
if  he  knew  what  she  was  feeling,  increased  her  emo- 
tion; her  breast  heaved  under  the  humming-bird 
blouse,  water  came  into  her  eyes,  and  more  than 
ever  her  lips  quivered.    He  was  saying: 

"Come,  come!  The  only  thing  we  cannot  cure 
is  age.  You  were  right  to  come,  my  child.  Music 
is  your  proper  air.  If  things  are  not  all  what  they 
ought  to  be,  you  shall  soon  forget.  In  music — in 
music,  we  can  get  away.  After  all,  my  little  friend, 
they  cannot  take  our  dreams  from  us — not  even  a 
wife,  not  even  a  husband  can  do  that.  Come,  we 
shall  have  good  times  yet!" 

And  Gyp,  with  a  violent  effort,  threw  off  that 
sudden  weakness.  From  those  who  serve  art  de- 
votedly there  radiates  a  kind  of  glamour.  She  left 
Monsieur  Harmost  that  afternoon,  infected  by  his 


BEYOND  201 

passion  for  music.  Poetic  justice — on  which  all 
homeopathy  is  founded — was  at  work  to  try  and 
cure  her  life  by  a  dose  of  what  had  spoiled  it.  To 
music,  she  now  gave  all  the  hours  she  could  spare. 
She  went  to  him  twice  a  week,  determining  to  get  on, 
but  uneasy  at  the  expense,  for  monetary  conditions 
were  ever  more  embarrassed.  At  home,  she  prac- 
tised steadily  and  worked  hard  at  composition. 
She  finished  several  songs  and  studies  during  the 
spring  and  summer,  and  left  still  more  unfinished. 
Monsieur  Harmost  was  tolerant  of  these  efforts, 
seeming  to  know  that  harsh  criticism  or  disapproval 
would  cut  her  impulse  down,  as  frost  cuts  the  life 
of  flowers.  Besides,  there  was  always  something 
fresh  and  individual  in  her  things.  He  asked  her 
one  day: 

"What  does  your  husband  think  of  these?" 

Gyp  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I  don't  show  them  to  him." 

She  never  had;  she  instinctively  kept  back  the 
knowledge  that  she  composed,  dreading  his  ruth- 
lessness  when  anything  grated  on  his  nerves,  and 
knowing  that  a  breath  of  mockery  would  wither 
her  belief  in  herself,  frail  enough  plant  already. 
The  only  person,  besides  her  master,  to  whom  she 
confided  her  efforts  was — strangely  enough — Rosek. 
But  he  had  surprised  her  one  day  copying  out  some 
music,  and  said  at  once:  "I  knew.  I  was  certain 
you  composed.  Ah,  do  play  it  to  me!  I  am  sure 
you  have  talent."  The  warmth  with  which  he 
praised  that  little  "caprice"  was  surely  genuine; 


202  BEYOND 

and  she  felt  so  grateful  that  she  even  played  him 
others,  and  then  a  song  for  him  to  sing.  From  that 
day,  he  no  longer  seemed  to  her  odious;  she  even 
began  to  have  for  him  a  certain  friendliness,  to  be 
a  little  sorry,  watching  him,  pale,  trim,  and  sphinx- 
like, in  her  drawing-room  or  garden,  getting  no 
nearer  to  the  fulfilment  of  his  desire.  He  had  never 
again  made  love  to  her,  but  she  knew  that  at  the 
least  sign  he  would.  His  face  and  his  invincible 
patience  made  him  pathetic  to  her.  Women  such 
as  Gyp  cannot  actively  dislike  those  who  admire 
them  greatly.  She  consulted  him  about  Fiorsen's 
debts.  There  were  hundreds  of  pounds  owing,  it 
seemed,  and,  in  addition,  much  to  Rosek  himself. 
The  thought  of  these  debts  weighed  unbearably 
on  her.  Why  did  he,  how  did  he  get  into  debt  like 
this?  What  became  of  the  money  he  earned? 
His  fees,  this  summer,  were  good  enough.  There 
was  such  a  feeling  of  degradation  about  debt.  It 
was,  somehow,  so  underbred  to  owe  money  to  all 
sorts  of  people.  Was  it  on  that  girl,  on  other  women, 
that  he  spent  it  all?  Or  was  it  simply  that  his  na- 
ture had  holes  in  every  pocket? 

Watching  Fiorsen  closely,  that  spring  and  early 
summer,  she  was  conscious  of  a  change,  a  sort  of 
loosening,  something  in  him  had  given  way — as 
when,  in  winding  a  watch,  the  key  turns  on  and  on, 
the  ratchet  being  broken.  Yet  he  was  certainly 
working  hard — perhaps  harder  than  ever.  She 
would  hear  him,  across  the  garden,  going  over  and 
over  a  passage,  as  if  he  never  would  be  satisfied. 


BEYOND  203 

But  his  playing  seemed  to  her  to  have  lost  its  fire 
and  sweep;  to  be  stale,  and  as  if  disillusioned.  It 
was  all  as  though  he  had  said  to  himself:  "What's 
the  use?"  In  his  face,  too,  there  was  a  change. 
She  knew — she  was  certain  that  he  was  drinking 
secretly.  Was  it  his  failure  with  her?  Was  it  the 
girl?  Was  it  simply  heredity  from  a  hard-drink- 
ing ancestry? 

Gyp  never  faced  these  questions.  To  face  them 
would  mean  useless  discussion,  useless  admission 
that  she  could  not  love  him,  useless  asseveration 
from  him  about  the  girl,  which  she  would  not  be- 
lieve, useless  denials  of  all  sorts.    Hopeless ! 

He  was  very  irritable,  and  seemed  especially  to 
resent  her  music  lessons,  alluding  to  them  with  a 
sort  of  sneering  impatience.  She  felt  that  he  de- 
spised them  as  amateurish,  and  secretly  resented 
it.  He  was  often  impatient,  too,  of  the  time  she 
gave  to  the  baby.  His  own  conduct  with  the  little 
creature  was  like  all  the  rest  of  him.  He  would  go 
to  the  nursery,  much  to  Betty's  alarm,  and  take 
up  the  baby;  be  charming  with  it  for  about  ten 
minutes,  then  suddenly  dump  it  back  into  its  cradle, 
stare  at  it  gloomily  or  utter  a  laugh,  and  go  out. 
Sometimes,  he  would  come  up  when  Gyp  was  there, 
and  after  watching  her  a  little  in  silence,  almost 
drag  her  away. 

Suffering  always  from  the  guilty  consciousness 
of  having  no  love  for  him,  and  ever  more  and  more 
from  her  sense  that,  instead  of  saving  him  she  was, 
as  it  were,  pushing  him  down-hill — ironical  nemesis 


204  BEYOND 

for  vanity! — Gyp  was  ever  more  and  more  com- 
pliant to  his  whims,  trying  to  make  up.  But  this 
compliance,  when  all  the  time  she  felt  further  and 
further  away,  was  straining  her  to  breaking-point. 
Hers  was  a  nature  that  goes  on  passively  enduring 
till  something  snaps;   after  that — no  more. 

Those  months  of  spring  and  summer  were  like 
a  long  spell  of  drought,  when  moisture  gathers  far 
away,  coming  nearer,  nearer,  till,  at  last,  the  deluge 
bursts  and  sweeps  the  garden. 


XV 

The  tenth  of  July  that  year  was  as  the  first  day 
of  summer.  There  had  been  much  fine  weather, 
but  always  easterly  or  northerly;  now,  after  a 
broken,  rainy  fortnight,  the  sun  had  come  in  full 
summer  warmth  with  a  gentle  breeze,  drifting  here 
and  there  scent  of  the  opening  lime  blossom.  In 
the  garden,  under  the  trees  at  the  far  end,  Betty 
sewed  at  a  garment,  and  the  baby  in  her  peram- 
bulator had  her  seventh  morning  sleep.  Gyp  stood 
before  a  bed  of  pansies  and  sweet  peas.  How  mon- 
keyish the  pansies'  faces!  The  sweet  peas,  too, 
were  like  tiny  bright  birds  fastened  to  green  perches 
swaying  with  the  wind.  And  their  little  green 
tridents,  growing  out  from  the  queer,  flat  stems, 
resembled  the  antenna?  of  insects.  Each  of  these 
bright  frail,  growing  things  had  life  and  individ- 
uality like  herself ! 

The  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  gravel  made  her 
turn.  Rosek  was  coming  from  the  drawing-room 
window.  Rather  startled,  Gyp  looked  at  him  over 
her  shoulder.  What  had  brought  him  at  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning  ?  He  came  up  to  her,  bowed, 
and  said: 

"I  came  to  see  Gustav.  He's  not  up  yet,  it 
seems.  I  thought  I  would  speak  to  you  first.  Can 
we  talk?" 

205 


206  BEYOND 

Hesitating  just  a  second,  Gyp  drew  off  her  gar- 
dening-gloves: 

"Of  course!    Here?    Or  in  the  drawing-room?" 

Rosek  answered: 

"In  the  drawing-room,  please." 

A  faint  tremor  passed  through  her,  but  she  led 
the  way,  and  seated  herself  where  she  could  see 
Betty  and  the  baby.  Rosek  stood  looking  down 
at  her;  his  stillness,  the  sweetish  gravity  of  his 
well-cut  lips,  his  spotless  dandyism  stirred  in  Gyp  a 
kind  of  unwilling  admiration. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said. 

"Bad  business,  I'm  afraid.  Something  must  be 
done  at  once.  I  have  been  trying  to  arrange  things, 
but  they  will  not  wait.  They  are  even  threatening 
to  sell  up  this  house." 

With  a  sense  of  outrage,  Gyp  cried: 

"Nearly  everything  here  is  mine." 

Rosek  shook  his  head. 

"The  lease  is  in  his  name — you  are  his  wife. 
They  can  do  it,  I  assure  you."  A  sort  of  shadow 
passed  over  his  face,  and  he  added:  "I  cannot 
help  him  any  more — just  now." 

Gyp  shook  her  head  quickly. 

"No — of  course !  You  ought  not  to  have  helped 
him  at  all.  I  can't  bear — "  He  bowed,  and  she 
stopped,  ashamed.  "How  much  does  he  owe  alto- 
gether?" 

"About  thirteen  hundred  pounds.  It  isn't  much, 
of  course.    But  there  is  something  else " 

"Worse?" 


BEYOND  207 

Rosek  nodded. 

"I  am  afraid  to  tell  you;  you  will  think  again 
perhaps  that  I  am  trying  to  make  capital  out  of 
it.  I  can  read  your  thoughts,  you  see.  I  cannot 
afford  that  you  should  think  that,  this  time." 

Gyp  made  a  little  movement  as  though  putting 
away  his  words. 

"No;   tell  me,  please." 

Rosek  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There  is  a  man  called  Wagge,  an  undertaker 
— the  father  of  someone  you  know " 

"Daphne  Wing?" 

"Yes.  A  child  is  coming.  They  have  made  her 
tell.  It  means  the  cancelling  of  her  engagements, 
of  course — and  other  things." 

Gyp  uttered  a  little  laugh;   then  she  said  slowly: 

"Can  you  tell  me,  please,  what  this  Mr. — Wagge 
can  do?" 

Again  Rosek  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"He  is  rabid — a  rabid  man  of  his  class  is  dan- 
gerous. A  lot  of  money  will  be  wanted,  I  should 
think — some  blood,  perhaps." 

He  moved  swiftly  to  her,  and  said  very  low: 

"Gyp,  it  is  a  year  since  I  told  you  of  this.  You 
did  not  believe  me  then.  I  told  you,  too,  that  I 
loved  you.  I  love  you  more,  now,  a  hundred  times  ! 
Don't  move !    I  am  going  up  to  Gustav." 

He  turned,  and  Gyp  thought  he  was  really  going; 
but  he  stopped  and  came  back  past  the  line  of  the 
window.  The  expression  of  his  face  was  quite 
changed,  so  hungry  that,  for  a  moment,  she  felt 


2oS  BEYOND 

sorry  for  him.  And  that  must  have  shown  in  her 
face,  for  he  suddenly  caught  at  her,  and  tried  to 
kiss  her  lips;  she  wrenched  back,  and  he  could 
only  reach  her  throat,  but  that  he  kissed  furiously. 
Letting  her  go  as  suddenly,  he  bent  his  head  and 
went  out  without  a  look. 

Gyp  stood  wiping  his  kisses  off  her  throat  with 
the  back  of  her  hand,  dumbly,  mechanically  think- 
ing: "What  have  I  done  to  be  treated  like  this? 
What  have  I  done?"  No  answer  came.  And  such 
rage  against  men  flared  up  that  she  just  stood  there, 
twisting  her  garden-gloves  in  her  hands,  and  biting 
the  lips  he  would  have  kissed.  Then,  going  to  her 
bureau,  she  took  up  her  address  book  and  looked  for 
the  name:  Wing,  88,  Frankland  Street,  Fulham. 
Unhooking  her  little  bag  from  off  the  back  of  the 
chair,  she  put  her  cheque-book  into  it.  Then,  tak- 
ing care  to  make  no  sound,  she  passed  into  the  hall, 
caught  up  her  sunshade,  and  went  out,  closing  the 
door  without  noise. 

She  walked  quickly  toward  Baker  Street.  Her 
gardening-hat  was  right  enough,  but  she  had  come 
out  without  gloves,  and  must  go  into  the  first  shop 
and  buy  a  pair.  In  the  choosing  of  them,  she  forgot 
her  emotions  for  a  minute.  Out  in  the  street  again, 
they  came  back  as  bitterly  as  ever.  And  the  day 
was  so  beautiful — the  sun  bright,  the  sky  blue,  the 
clouds  dazzling  white;  from  the  top  of  her  'bus  she 
could  see  all  its  brilliance.  There  rose  up  before  her 
the  memory  of  the  man  who  had  kissed  her  arm  at 
the  first  ball.     And  now — this !     But,  mixed  with 


BEYOND  209 

her  rage,  a  sort  of  unwilling  compassion  and  fellow 
feeling  kept  rising  for  that  girl,  that  silly,  sugar- 
plum girl,  brought  to  such  a  pass  by — her  husband. 
These  feelings  sustained  her  through  that  voyage  to 
Fulham.  She  got  down  at  the  nearest  corner, 
walked  up  a  widish  street  of  narrow  grey  houses  till 
she  came  to  number  eighty-eight.  On  that  newly 
scrubbed  step,  waiting  for  the  door  to  open,  she 
very  nearly  turned  and  fled.  What  exactly  had 
she  come  to  do  ? 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  servant  in  an  untidy 
frock.  Mutton !  The  smell  of  mutton — there  it 
was,  just  as  the  girl  had  said ! 

"Is  Miss — Miss  Daphne  Wing  at  home?" 

In  that  peculiar  "I've  given  it  up"  voice  of  do- 
mestics in  small  households,  the  servant  answered: 

"Yes;  Miss  Disey's  in.  D'you  want  to  see  'er? 
Whatnyme?" 

Gyp  produced  her  card.  The  maid  looked  at  it, 
at  Gyp,  and  at  two  brown-painted  doors,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "Where  will  you  have  it?"  Then,  open- 
ing the  first  of  them,  she  said : 

"Tyke  a  seat,  please;  I'll  fetch  her." 

Gyp  went  in.  In  the  middle  of  what  was  clearly 
the  dining-room,  she  tried  to  subdue  the  tremor  of 
her  limbs  and  a  sense  of  nausea.  The  table  against 
which  her  hand  rested  was  covered  with  red  baize, 
no  doubt  to  keep  the  stains  of  mutton  from  pene- 
trating to  the  wood.  On  the  mahogany  sideboard 
reposed  a  cruet-stand  and  a  green  dish  of  very  red 
apples.     A  bamboo-framed  talc  screen  painted  with 


210  BEYOND 

white  and  yellow  marguerites  stood  before  a  fire- 
place filled  with  pampas-grass  dyed  red.  The  chairs 
were  of  red  morocco,  the  curtains  a  brownish-red, 
the  walls  green,  and  on  them  hung  a  set  of  Landseer 
prints.  The  peculiar  sensation  which  red  and  green 
in  juxtaposition  produce  on  the  sensitive  was  added 
to  Gyp's  distress.  And,  suddenly,  her  eyes  lighted 
on  a  little  deep-blue  china  bowl.  It  stood  on  a  black 
stand  on  the  mantel-piece,  with  nothing  in  it.  To 
Gyp,  in  this  room  of  red  and  green,  with  the  smell 
of  mutton  creeping  in,  that  bowl  was  like  the  crys- 
tallized whiff  of  another  world.  Daphne  Wing — 
not  Daisy  Wagge — had  surely  put  it  there!  And, 
somehow,  it  touched  her — emblem  of  stifled  beauty, 
emblem  of  all  that  the  girl  had  tried  to  pour  out  to 
her  that  August  afternoon  in  her  garden  nearly  a 
year  ago.  Thin  Eastern  china,  good  and  really 
beautiful !  A  wonder  they  allowed  it  to  pollute  this 
room! 

A  sigh  made  her  turn  round.  With  her  back 
against  the  door  and  a  white,  scared  face,  the  girl 
was  standing.  Gyp  thought:  'She  has  suffered  hor- 
ribly.' And,  going  impulsively  up  to  her,  she  held 
out  her  hand. 

Daphne  Wing  sighed  out:  "Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen!" 
and,  bending  over  that  hand,  kissed  it.  Gyp  saw 
that  her  new  glove  was  wet.  Then  the  girl  relapsed, 
her  feet  a  little  fonvard,  her  head  a  little  forward, 
her  back  against  the  door.  Gyp,  who  knew  why 
she  stood  thus,  was  swept  again  by  those  two  emo- 
tions— rage  against  men,  and  fellow  feeling  for  one 


BEYOND  211 

about  to  go  through  what  she  herself  had  just  en- 
dured. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  said,  gently;  "only,  what's  to 
be  done?" 

Daphne  Wing  put  her  hands  up  over  her  white 
face  and  sobbed.  She  sobbed  so  quietly  but  so  ter- 
ribly deeply  that  Gyp  herself  had  the  utmost  diffi- 
culty not  to  cry.  It  was  the  sobbing  of  real  despair 
by  a  creature  bereft  of  hope  and  strength,  above  all, 
of  love — the  sort  of  weeping  which  is  drawn  from 
desolate,  suffering  souls  only  by  the  touch  of  fellow 
feeling.  And,  instead  of  making  Gyp  glad  or  sat- 
isfying her  sense  of  justice,  it  filled  her  with  more 
rage  against  her  husband — that  he  had  taken  this 
girl's  infatuation  for  his  pleasure  and  then  thrown 
her  away.  She  seemed  to  see  him  discarding  that 
clinging,  dove-fair  girl,  for  cloying  his  senses  and 
getting  on  his  nerves,  discarding  her  with  caustic 
words,  to  abide  alone  the  consequences  of  her  in- 
fatuation. She  put  her  hand  timidly  on  that  shak- 
ing shoulder,  and  stroked  it.  For  a  moment  the 
sobbing  stopped,  and  the  girl  said  brokenly: 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  I  do  love  him  so ! "  At  those 
naive  words,  a  painful  wish  to  laugh  seized  on  Gyp, 
making  her  shiver  from  head  to  foot.  Daphne 
Wing  saw  it,  and  went  on:  "I  know — I  know — it's 
awful;  but  I  do — and  now  he — he — "  Her  quiet 
but  really  dreadful  sobbing  broke  out  again.  And 
again  Gyp  began  stroking  and  stroking  her  shoulder. 
"And  I  have  been  so  awful  to  you !  Oh,  Mrs.  Fior- 
sen, do  forgive  me,  please !" 


212  BEYOND 

All  Gyp  could  find  to  answer,  was: 

"Yes,  yes;  that's  nothing!  Don't  cry — don't 
cry!" 

Very  slowly  the  sobbing  died  away,  till  it  was 
just  a  long  shivering,  but  still  the  girl  held  her  hands 
over  her  face  and  her  face  down.  Gyp  felt  para- 
lyzed. The  unhappy  girl,  the  red  and  green  room, 
the  smell  of  mutton — creeping ! 

At  last,  a  little  of  that  white  face  showed;  the  lips, 
no  longer  craving  for  sugar-plums,  murmured: 

"It's  you  he — he — really  loves  all  the  time.  And 
you  don't  love  him — that's  what's  so  funny — and — 
and — I  can't  understand  it.  Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  if  I 
could  see  him — just  see  him !  He  told  me  never  to 
come  again;  and  I  haven't  dared.  I  haven't  seen 
him  for  three  weeks — not  since  I  told  him  about  it. 
What  shall  I  do  ?    What  shaU  I  do  ?  " 

His  being  her  own  husband  seemed  as  nothing  to 
Gyp  at  that  moment.  She  felt  such  pity  and  yet 
such  violent  revolt  that  any  girl  should  want  to 
crawl  back  to  a  man  who  had  spurned  her.  Uncon- 
sciously, she  had  drawn  herself  up  and  pressed  her 
lips  together.  The  girl,  who  followed  every  move- 
ment, said  piteously: 

"I  don't  seem  to  have  any  pride.  I  don't  mind 
what  he  does  to  me,  or  what  he  says,  if  only  I  can 
see  him." 

Gyp's  revolt  yielded  to  her  pity.     She  said: 

"How  long  before?" 

"Three  months." 

Three  months — and  in  this  state  of  misery  ! 


BEYOND  213 

"I  think  I  shall  do  something  desperate.  Now 
that  I  can't  dance,  and  they  know,  it's  too  awful ! 
If  I  could  see  him,  I  wouldn't  mind  anything.  But 
I  know — I  know  he'll  never  want  me  again.  Oh, 
Mrs.  Fiorsen,  I  wish  I  was  dead !    I  do  !" 

A  heavy  sigh  escaped  Gyp,  and,  bending  sud- 
denly, she  kissed  the  girl's  forehead.  Still  that 
scent  of  orange  blossom  about  her  skin  or  hair,  as 
when  she  asked  whether  she  ought  to  love  or  not;  as 
when  she  came,  moth-like,  from  the  tree-shade  into 
the  moonlight,  spun,  and  fluttered,  with  her  shadow 
spinning  and  fluttering  before  her.  Gyp  turned 
away,  feeling  that  she  must  relieve  the  strain,  and 
pointing  to  the  bowl,  said: 

"  You  put  that  there,  I'm  sure.     It's  beautiful." 
The  girl  answered,  with  piteous  eagerness: 
"Oh,   would  you  like  it?     Do  take  it.     Count 
Rosek  gave  it  me."     She  started  away  from  the  door. 
"Oh,  that's  papa.     He'll  be  coming  in !" 

Gyp  heard  a  man  clear  his  throat,  and  the  rattle 
of  an  umbrella  falling  into  a  stand;  the  sight  of  the 
girl  wilting  and  shrinking  against  the  sideboard 
steadied  her.  Then  the  door  opened,  and  Mr. 
Wagge  entered.  Short  and  thick,  in  black  frock 
coat  and  trousers,  and  a  greyish  beard,  he  stared 
from  one  to  the  other.  He  looked  what  he  was,  an 
Englishman  and  a  chapelgoer,  nourished  on  sherry 
and  mutton,  who  could  and  did  make  his  own  way 
in  the  world.  His  features,  coloured,  as  from  a  deep 
liverishness,  were  thick,  like  his  body,  and  not  ill- 
natured,  except  for  a  sort  of  anger  in  his  small, 


214  BEYOND 

rather  piggy  grey  eyes.  He  said  in  a  voice  perma- 
nently gruff,  but  impregnated  with  a  species  of  pro- 
fessional ingratiation: 

"Ye-es?    Whom  'ave  I ?" 

"Mrs.  Fiorsen." 

"Ow!"  The  sound  of  his  breathing  could  be 
heard  distinctly;  he  twisted  a  chair  round  and  said: 

"Take  a  seat,  won't  you?" 

Gyp  shook  her  head. 

In  Mr.  Wagge's  face  a  kind  of  deference  seemed 
to  struggle  with  some  more  primitive  emotion. 
Taking  out  a  large,  black-edged  handkerchief,  he 
blew  his  nose,  passed  it  freely  over  his  visage,  and 
turning  to  his  daughter,  muttered: 

"  Go  upstairs." 

The  girl  turned  quickly,  and  the  last  glimpse  of 
her  white  face  whipped  up  Gyp's  rage  against  men. 
When  the  door  was  shut,  Mr.  Wagge  cleared  his 
throat;  the  grating  sound  carried  with  it  the  sug- 
gestion of  enormously  thick  linings. 

He  said  more  gruffly  than  ever: 

"May  I  ask  what  'as  given  us  the  honour?" 

"I  came  to  see  your  daughter." 

His  little  piggy  eyes  travelled  from  her  face  to 
her  feet,  to  the  walls  of  the  room,  to  his  own  watch- 
chain,  to  his  hands  that  had  begun  to  rub  themselves 
together,  back  to  her  breast,  higher  than  which 
they  dared  not  mount.  Their  infinite  embarrass- 
ment struck  Gyp.  She  could  almost  hear  him 
thinking:  'Now,  how  can  I  discuss  it  with  this 
attractive  young  female,  wife  of  the  scoundrel  who's 


BEYOND  215 

ruined  my  daughter  ?  Delicate — that's  what  it  is  ! ' 
Then  the  words  burst  hoarsely  from  him. 

"This  is  an  unpleasant  business,  ma'am.  I  don't 
know  what  to  say.  Reelly  I  don't.  It's  awkward; 
it's  very  awkward." 

Gyp  said  quietly: 

"Your  daughter  is  desperately  unhappy;  and  that 
can't  be  good  for  her  just  now." 

Mr.  Wagge's  thick  figure  seemed  to  writhe. 

"Pardon  me,  ma'am,"  he  spluttered,  "but  I  must 
call  your  husband  a  scoundrel.  I'm  sorry  to  be 
impolite,  but  I  must  do  it.  If  I  had  'im  'ere,  I 
don't  know  that  I  should  be  able  to  control  myself 
— I  don't  indeed."  Gyp  made  a  movement  of  her 
gloved  hands,  which  he  seemed  to  interpret  as  sym- 
pathy, for  he  went  on  in  a  stream  of  husky  utter- 
ance: "It's  a  delicate  thing  before  a  lady,  and  she 
the  injured  party;  but  one  has  feelings.  From  the 
first  I  said  this  dancin'  was  in  the  face  of  Providence ; 
but  women  have  no  more  sense  than  an  egg.  Her 
mother  she  would  have  it;  and  now  she's  got  it! 
Career,  indeed !  Pretty  career !  Daughter  of  mine ! 
I  tell  you,  ma'am,  I'm  angry;  there's  no  other  word 
for  it — I'm  angry.  If  that  scoundrel  comes  within 
reach  of  me,  I  shall  mark  'im — I'm  not  a  young 
man,  but  I  shall  mark  'im.  An'  what  to  say  to 
you,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  That  my  daughter 
should  be'ave  like  that !  Well,  it's  made  a  differ- 
ence to  me.  An'  now  I  suppose  her  name'll  be 
dragged  in  the  mud.  I  tell  you  frankly  I  'oped  you 
wouldn't  hear  of  it,  because  after  all  the  girl's  got 


216  BEYOND 

her  punishment.  And  this  divorce-court — it's  not 
nice — it's  a  horrible  thing  for  respectable  people. 
And,  mind  you,  I  won't  see  my  girl  married  to  that 
scoundrel,  not  if  you  do  divorce  'im.  No;  she'll 
have  her  disgrace  for  nothing." 

Gyp,  who  had  listened  with  her  head  a  little  bent, 
raised  it  suddenly,  and  said: 

"There'll  be  no  public  disgrace,  Mr.  Wagge,  un- 
less you  make  it  yourself.  If  you  send  Daphne — 
Daisy — quietly  away  somewhere  till  her  trouble's 
over,  no  one  need  know  anything." 

Mr.  Wagge,  whose  mouth  had  opened  slightly, 
and  whose  breathing  could  certainly  have  been  heard 
in  the  street,  took  a  step  forward  and  said: 

"Do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  you're  not 
goin'  to  take  proceedings,  ma'am?" 

Gyp  shuddered,  and  shook  her  head. 

Mr.  Wagge  stood  silent,  slightly  moving  his  face 
up  and  down. 

"Well,"  he  said,  at  length,  "it's  more  than  she 
deserves;  but  I  don't  disguise  it's  a  relief  to  me. 
And  I  must  say,  in  a  young  lady  like  you,  and — 
and  handsome,  it  shows  a  Christian  spirit."  Again 
Gyp  shivered,  and  shook  her  head.  "It  does. 
You'll  allow  me  to  say  so,  as  a  man  old  enough  to  be 
your  father — and  a  regular  attendant." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  Gyp  put  her  gloved  hand 
into  it. 

"I'm  very,  very  sorry.     Please  be  nice  to  her." 

Mr.  Wagge  recoiled  a  little,  and  for  some  seconds 
stood  ruefully  rubbing  his  hands  together  and  look- 
ing from  side  to  side. 


BEYOND  217 

"I'm  a  domestic  man,"  he  said  suddenly.  "A 
domestic  man  in  a  serious  line  of  life;  and  I  never 
thought  to  have  anything  like  this  in  my  family — 
never!  It's  been — well,  I  can't  tell  you  what  it's 
been!" 

Gyp  took  up  her  sunshade.  She  felt  that  she 
must  get  away;  at  any  moment  he  might  say  some- 
thing she  could  not  bear — and  the  smell  of  mutton 
rising  fast ! 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said  again;  "good-bye";  and 
moved  past  him  to  the  door.  She  heard  him  breath- 
ing hard  as  he  followed  her  to  open  it,  and  thought: 
'  If  only — oh !  please  let  him  be  silent  till  I  get  out- 
side ! '  Mr.  Wagge  passed  her  and  put  his  hand  on 
the  latch  of  the  front  door.  His  little  piggy  eyes 
scanned  her  almost  timidly. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I'm  very  glad  to  have  the 
privilege  of  your  acquaintance;  and,  if  I  may  say 
so,  you  'ave — you  'ave  my  'earty  sympathy.  Good- 
day." 

The  door  once  shut  behind  her,  Gyp  took  a  long 
breath  and  walked  swiftly  away.  Her  cheeks  were 
burning;  and,  with  a  craving  for  protection,  she  put 
up  her  sunshade.  But  the  girl's  white  face  came 
up  again  before  her,  and  the  sound  of  her  words: 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  I  wish  I  was  dead!    I  dot" 


XVI 

Gyp  walked  on  beneath  her  sunshade,  making 
unconsciously  for  the  peace  of  trees.  Her  mind  was 
a  whirl  of  impressions — Daphne  Wing's  figure 
against  the  door,  Mr.  Wagge's  puggy  grey-bearded 
countenance,  the  red  pampas-grass,  the  blue  bowl, 
Rosek's  face  swooping  at  her,  her  last  glimpse  of 
her  baby  asleep  under  the  trees ! 

She  reached  Kensington  Gardens,  turned  into 
that  walk  renowned  for  the  beauty  of  its  flowers 
and  the  plainness  of  the  people  who  frequent  it, 
and  sat  down  on  a  bench.  It  was  near  the  luncheon- 
hour;  nursemaids,  dogs,  perambulators,  old  gentle- 
men— all  were  hurrying  a  little  toward  their  food. 
They  glanced  with  critical  surprise  at  this  pretty 
young  woman,  leisured  and  lonely  at  such  an  hour, 
trying  to  find  out  what  was  wrong  with  her,  as  one 
naturally  does  with  beauty — bow  legs  or  something, 
for  sure,  to  balance  a  face  like  that !  But  Gyp  no- 
ticed none  of  them,  except  now  and  again  a  dog 
which  sniffed  her  knees  in  passing.  For  months  she 
had  resolutely  cultivated  insensibility,  resolutely  re- 
fused to  face  reality;  the  barrier  was  forced  now,  and 
the  flood  had  swept  her  away.  "Proceedings ! "  Mr. 
Wagge  had  said.  To  those  who  shrink  from  letting 
their  secret  affairs  be  known  even  by  their  nearest 

218 


BEYOND  219 

friends,  the  notion  of  a  public  exhibition  of  troubles 
simply  never  comes,  and  it  had  certainly  never  come 
to  Gyp.  With  a  bitter  smile  she  thought:  'I'm  bet- 
ter off  than  she  is,  after  all !  Suppose  I  loved  him, 
too?  No,  I  never — never — want  to  love.  Women 
who  love  suffer  too  much.' 

She  sat  on  that  bench  a  long  time  before  it  came 
into  her  mind  that  she  was  due  at  Monsieur  Har- 
most's  for  a  music  lesson  at  three  o'clock.  It  was 
well  past  two  already;  and  she  set  out  across  the 
grass.  The  summer  day  was  full  of  murmurings  of 
bees  and  flies,  cooings  of  blissful  pigeons,  the  soft 
swish  and  stir  of  leaves,  and  the  scent  of  lime  blos- 
som under  a  sky  so  blue,  with  few  white  clouds  slow, 
and  calm,  and  full.  Why  be  unhappy?  And  one 
of  those  spotty  spaniel  dogs,  that  have  broad  heads, 
with  frizzy  topknots,  and  are  always  rascals,  smelt 
at  her  frock  and  moved  round  and  round  her,  hop- 
ing that  she  would  throw  her  sunshade  on  the  water 
for  him  to  fetch,  this  being  in  his  view  the  only 
reason  why  anything  was  carried  in  the  hand. 

She  found  Monsieur  Harmost  fidgeting  up  and 
down  the  room,  whose  opened  windows  could  not 
rid  it  of  the  smell  of  latakia. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I  thought  you  were  not  coming ! 
You  look  pale;  are  you  not  well?  Is  it  the  heat? 
Or" — he  looked  hard  into  her  face — "has  someone 
hurt  you,  my  little  friend?"  Gyp  shook  her  head. 
"Ah,  yes,"  he  went  on  irritably;  "you  tell  me  noth- 
ing; you  tell  nobody  nothing!  You  close  up  your 
pretty  face  like  a  flower  at  night.    At  your  age,  my 


220  BEYOND 

child,  one  should  make  confidences;  a  secret  grief 
is  to  music  as  the  east  wind  to  the  stomach.  Put 
off  your  mask  for  once."  He  came  close  to  her. 
"Tell  me  your  troubles.  It  is  a  long  time  since  I 
have  been  meaning  to  ask.  Come!  We  are  only 
once  young;  I  want  to  see  you  happy." 

But  Gyp  stood  looking  down.  Would  it  be  relief 
to  pour  her  soul  out?  Would  it?  His  brown  eyes 
questioned  her  like  an  old  dog's.  She  did  not  want 
to  hurt  one  so  kind.     And  yet — impossible! 

Monsieur  Harmost  suddenly  sat  down  at  the 
piano.  Resting  his  hands  on  the  keys,  he  looked 
round  at  her,  and  said: 

"I  am  in  love  with  you,  you  know.  Old  men  can 
be  very  much  in  love,  but  they  know  it  is  no  good 
— that  makes  them  endurable.  Still,  we  like  to 
feel  of  use  to  youth  and  beauty;  it  gives  us  a  little 
warmth.  Come;  tell  me  your  grief!"  He  waited 
a  moment,  then  said  irritably:  "Well,  well,  we  go 
to  music  then!" 

It  was  his  habit  to  sit  by  her  at  the  piano  corner, 
but  to-day  he  stood  as  if  prepared  to  be  exception- 
ally severe.  And  Gyp  played,  whether  from  over- 
excited nerves  or  from  not  having  had  any  lunch, 
better  than  she  had  ever  played.  The  Chopin  polo- 
naise in  A  flat,  that  song  of  revolution,  which  had 
always  seemed  so  unattainable,  went  as  if  her  fin- 
gers were  being  worked  for  her.  When  she  had 
finished,  Monsieur  Harmost,  bending  forward,  lifted 
one  of  her  hands  and  put  his  lips  to  it.  She  felt  the 
scrub  of  his  little  bristly  beard,  and  raised  her  face 


BEYOND  221 

with  a  deep  sigh  of  satisfaction.  A  voice  behind 
them  said  mockingly: 

"Bravo!" 

There,  by  the  door,  stood  Fiorsen. 

"Congratulations,  madame!  I  have  long  wanted 
to  see  you  under  the  inspiration  of  your — mas- 
ter!" 

Gyp's  heart  began  to  beat  desperately.  Mon- 
sieur Harmost  had  not  moved.  A  faint  grin  slowly 
settled  in  his  beard,  but  his  eyes  were  startled. 

Fiorsen  kissed  the  back  of  his  own  hand. 

"To  this  old  Pantaloon  you  come  to  give  your 
heart.    Ho — what  a  lover!" 

Gyp  saw  the  old  man  quiver;  she  sprang  up 
and  cried: 

"You  brute!" 

Fiorsen  ran  forward,  stretching  out  his  arms 
toward  Monsieur  Harmost,  as  if  to  take  him  by 
the  throat. 

The  old  man  drew  himself  up.  "Monsieur,"  he 
said,  "you  are  certainly  drunk." 

Gyp  slipped  between,  right  up  to  those  out- 
stretched hands  till  she  could  feel  their  knuckles 
against  her.  Had  he  gone  mad  ?  Would  he  strangle 
her?  But  her  eyes  never  moved  from  his,  and  his 
began  to  waver;  his  hands  dropped,  and,  with  a 
kind  of  moan,  he  made  for  the  door. 

Monsieur  Harmost's  voice  behind  her  said: 

"Before  you  go,  monsieur,  give  me  some  explana- 
tion of  this  imbecility!" 

Fiorsen   spun   round,   shook  his   fist,   and  went 


222  BEYOND 

out  muttering.  They  heard  the  front  door  slam. 
Gyp  turned  abruptly  to  the  window,  and  there, 
in  her  agitation,  she  noticed  little  outside  things 
as  one  does  in  moments  of  bewildered  anger.  Even 
into  that  back  yard,  summer  had  crept.  The 
leaves  of  the  sumach- tree  were  glistening;  in  a 
three-cornered  little  patch  of  sunlight,  a  black 
cat  with  a  blue  ribbon  round  its  neck  was  basking. 
The  voice  of  one  hawking  strawberries  drifted 
melancholy  from  a  side  street,  ^he  was  conscious 
that  Monsieur  Harmost  was  standing  very  still, 
with  a  hand  pressed  to  his  mouth,  and  she  felt  a 
perfect  passion  of  compunction  and  anger.  That 
kind  and  harmless  old  man — to  be  so  insulted! 
This  was  indeed  the  culmination  of  all  Gustav's 
outrages !  She  would  never  forgive  him  this !  For 
he  had  insulted  her  as  well,  beyond  what  pride 
or  meekness  could  put  up  with.  She  turned,  and, 
running  up  to  the  old  man,  put  both  her  hands  into 
his. 

"I'm  so  awfully  sorry.  Good-bye,  dear,  dear 
Monsieur  Harmost;  I  shall  come  on  Friday!" 
And,  before  he  could  stop  her,  she  was  gone. 

She  dived  into  the  traffic;  but,  just  as  she 
reached  the  pavement  on  the  other  side,  felt  her 
dress  plucked  and  saw  Fiorsen  just  behind  her. 
She  shook  herself  free  and  walked  swiftly  on.  Was 
he  going  to  make  a  scene  in  the  street?  Again  he 
caught  her  arm.  She  stopped  dead,  faced  round 
on  him,  and  said,  in  an  icy  voice: 

"Please  don't  make   scenes  in   the   street,   and 


BEYOND  223 

don't  follow  me  like  this.  If  you  want  to  talk  to 
me,  you  can — at  home." 

Then,  very  calmly,  she  turned  and  walked  on. 
But  he  was  still  following  her,  some  paces  off.  She 
did  not  quicken  her  steps,  and  to  the  first  taxi- 
cab  driver  that  passed  she  made  a  sign,  and  say- 
ing: 

"Bury  Street — quick!"  got  in.  She  saw  Fiorsen 
rush  forward,  too  late  to  stop  her.  He  threw  up 
his  hand  and  stood  still,  his  face  deadly  white  under 
his  broad-brimmed  hat.  She  was  far  too  angry 
and  upset  to  care. 

From  the  moment  she  turned  to  the  window 
at  Monsieur  Harmost's,  she  had  determined  to  go 
to  her  father's.  She  would  not  go  back  to  Fiorsen; 
and  the  one  thought  that  filled  her  mind  was  how 
to  get  Betty  and  her  baby.  Nearly  four!  Dad 
was  almost  sure  to  be  at  his  club.  And  leaning  out, 
she  said:   "No;  Hyde  Park  Corner,  please." 

The  hall  porter,  who  knew  her,  after  calling  to 
a  page-boy:  "Major  Winton — sharp,  now!"  came 
specially  out  of  his  box  to  offer  her  a  seat  and  The 
Times. 

Gyp  sat  with  it  on  her  knee,  vaguely  taking  in 
her  surroundings — a  thin  old  gentleman  anxiously 
weighing  himself  in  a  corner,  a  white-calved  foot- 
man crossing  with  a  tea-tray;  a  number  of  hats 
on  pegs;  the  green-baize  board  with  its  white  rows 
of  tapelike  paper,  and  three  members  standing 
before  it.  One  of  them,  a  tall,  stout,  good-hu- 
moured-looking man  in  pince-nez  and  a  white  waist- 


224  BEYOND 

coat,  becoming  conscious,  removed  his  straw  hat 
and  took  up  a  position  whence,  without  staring, 
he  could  gaze  at  her;  and  Gyp  knew,  without  ever 
seeming  to  glance  at  him,  that  he  found  her  to  his 
liking.  She  saw  her  father's  unhurried  figure  pass- 
ing that  little  group,  all  of  whom  were  conscious 
now,  and  eager  to  get  away  out  of  this  sanctum  of 
masculinity,  she  met  him  at  the  top  of  the  low 
steps,  and  said: 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Dad." 

He  gave  her  a  quick  look,  selected  his  hat,  and 
followed  to  the  door.  In  the  cab,  he  put  his  hand 
on  hers  and  said: 

"Now,  my  dear?" 

But  all  she  could  get  out  was: 

"I  want  to  come  back  to  you.  I  can't  go  on 
there.    It's — it's — I've  come  to  an  end." 

His  hand  pressed  hers  tightly,  as  if  he  were  try- 
ing to  save  her  the  need  for  saying  more.  Gyp 
went  on: 

"I  must  get  baby;  I'm  terrified  that  he'll  try  to 
keep  her,  to  get  me  back." 

"Is  he  at  home?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  told  him  that  I'm 
going  to  leave  him." 

Win  ton  looked  at  his  watch  and  asked: 

"Does  the  baby  ever  go  out  as  late  as  this?" 

"Yes;   after  tea.    It's  cooler." 

"I'll  take  this  cab  on,  then.  You  stay  and  get 
the  room  ready  for  her.  Don't  worry,  and  don't 
go  out  till  I  return." 


BEYOND  225 

And  Gyp  thought:  'How  wonderful  of  him  not 
to  have  asked  a  single  question.' 

The  cab  stopped  at  the  Bury  Street  door.  She 
took  his  hand,  put  it  to  her  cheek,  and  got  out. 
He  said  quietly: 

aDo  you  want  the  dogs?" 

"Yes — oh,  yes!    He  doesn't  care  for  them." 

"All  right.  There'll  be  time  to  get  you  in  some 
things  for  the  night  after  I  come  back.  I  shan't 
run  any  risks  to-day.  Make  Mrs.  Markey  give 
you  tea." 

Gyp  watched  the  cab  gather  way  again,  saw 
him  wave  his  hand;  then,  with  a  deep  sigh,  half 
anxiety,  half  relief,  she  rang  the  bell. 


XVII 

When  the  cab  debouched  again  into  St.  James' 
Street,  Win  ton  gave  the  order:  "Quick  as  you 
can ! "  One  could  think  better  going  fast !  A  little 
red  had  come  into  his  brown  cheeks;  his  eyes  under 
their  half-drawn  lids  had  a  keener  light;  his  lips 
were  tightly  closed;  he  looked  as  he  did  when  a 
fox  was  breaking  cover.  Gyp  could  do  no  wrong, 
or,  if  she  could,  he  would  stand  by  her  in  it  as  a 
matter  of  course.  But  he  was  going  to  take  no 
risks — make  no  frontal  attack.  Time  for  that 
later,  if  necessary.  He  had  better  nerves  than  most 
people,  and  that  kind  of  steely  determination  and 
resource  which  makes  many  Englishmen  of  his 
class  formidable  in  small  operations.  He  kept  his 
cab  at  the  door,  rang,  and  asked  for  Gyp,  with  a 
kind  of  pleasure  in  his  ruse. 

"She's  not  in  yet,  sir.    Mr.  Fiorsen's  in." 

"Ah!    And  baby?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I'll  come  in  and  see  her.    In  the  garden?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Dogs  there,  too?" 

"Yes,  sir.    And  will  you  have  tea,  please,  sir?" 

"No,  thanks."  How  to  effect  this  withdrawal 
without  causing  gossip,  and  yet  avoid  suspicion 
of  collusion  with  Gyp?  And  he  added:  "Unless 
Mrs.  Fiorsen  comes  in." 

Passing  out  into  the  garden,  he  became  aware 

226 


BEYOND  227 

that  Fiorsen  was  at  the  dining-room  window  watch- 
ing him,  and  decided  to  make  no  sign  that  he  knew 
this.  The  baby  was  under  the  trees  at  the  far  end, 
and  the  dogs  came  rushing  thence  with  a  fury  which 
lasted  till  they  came  within  scent  of  him.  Winton 
went  leisurely  up  to  the  perambulator,  and,  salut- 
ing Betty,  looked  down  at  his  grandchild.  She 
lay  under  an  awning  of  muslin,  for  fear  of  flies,  and 
was  awake.  Her  solemn,  large  brown  eyes,  already 
like  Gyp's,  regarded  him  with  gravity.  Clucking 
to  her  once  or  twice,  as  is  the  custom,  he  moved  so 
as  to  face  the  house.  In  this  position,  he  had  Betty 
with  her  back  to  it.    And  he  said  quietly: 

"I'm  here  with  a  message  from  your  mistress, 
Betty.  Keep  your  head;  don't  look  round,  but 
listen  to  me.  She's  at  Bury  Street  and  going  to 
stay  there;  she  wants  you  and  baby  and  the  dogs." 
The  stout  woman's  eyes  grew  round  and  her  mouth 
opened.  Winton  put  his  hand  on  the  perambulator. 
"Steady,  now!  Go  out  as  usual  with  this  thing. 
It's  about  your  time;  and  wait  for  me  at  the  turn- 
ing to  Regent's  Park.  I'll  come  on  in  my  cab  and 
pick  you  all  up.  Don't  get  flurried;  don't  take 
anything;  do  exactly  as  you  usually  would.  Un- 
derstand?" 

It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  stout  women  with  babies 
in  their  charge  to  receive  such  an  order  without 
question.  Her  colour,  and  the  heaving  of  that 
billowy  bosom  made  Winton  add  quickly: 

"Now,  Betty,  pull  yourself  together;  Gyp  wants 
you.    I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  in  the  cab." 


228  BEYOND 

The  poor  woman,  still  heaving  vaguely,  could 
only  stammer: 

"Yes,  sir.  Poor  little  thing!  What  about  its 
night- things?    And  Miss  Gyp's?" 

Conscious  of  that  figure  still  at  the  window, 
Winton  made  some  passes  with  his  fingers  at  the 
baby,  and  said: 

"Never  mind  them.  As  soon  as  you  see  me  at 
the  drawing-room  window,  get  ready  and  go.  Eyes 
front,  Betty;  don't  look  round;  I'll  cover  your  re- 
treat !  Don't  fail  Gyp  now.    Pull  yourself  together." 

With  a  sigh  that  could  have  been  heard  in  Ken- 
sington, Betty  murmured:  "Very  well,  sir;  oh 
dear!"  and  began  to  adjust  the  strings  of  her 
bonnet.  With  nods,  as  if  he  had  been  the  recipient 
of  some  sage  remarks  about  the  baby,  Winton 
saluted,  and  began  his  march  again  towards  the 
house.  He  carefully  kept  his  eyes  to  this  side  and 
to  that,  as  if  examining  the  flowers,  but  noted  all 
the  same  that  Fiorsen  had  receded  from  the  win- 
dow. Rapid  thought  told  him  that  the  fellow 
would  come  back  there  to  see  if  he  were  gone,  and 
he  placed  himself  before  a  rose-bush,  where,  at 
that  reappearance,  he  could  make  a  sign  of  recogni- 
tion. Sure  enough,  he  came;  and  Winton  quietly 
raising  his  hand  to  the  salute  passed  on  through 
the  drawing-room  window.  He  went  quickly  into 
the  hall,  listened  a  second,  and  opened  the  dining- 
room  door.  Fiorsen  was  pacing  up  and  down,  pale 
and  restless.  He  came  to  a  standstill  and  stared 
haggardly  at  Winton,  who  said: 

"How  are  you?    Gyp  not  in?" 


BEYOND  229 

"No." 

Something  in  the  sound  of  that  "No"  touched 
Winton  with  a  vague — a  very  vague — compunction. 
To  be  left  by  Gyp !  Then  his  heart  hardened  again. 
The  fellow  was  a  rotter — he  was  sure  of  it,  had  al- 
ways been  sure. 

"Baby  looks  well,"  he  said. 

Fiorsen  turned  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down 
again. 

"Where  is  Gyp?  I  want  her  to  come  in.  I  want 
her." 

Winton  took  out  his  watch. 

"It's  not  late."  And  suddenly  he  felt  a  great 
aversion  for  the  part  he  was  playing.  To  get  the 
baby;  to  make  Gyp  safe — yes!  But,  somehow, 
not  this  pretence  that  he  knew  nothing  about  it. 
He  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  out.  It  imperilled 
everything;  but  he  couldn't  help  it.  He  could 
not  stay  and  go  on  prevaricating  like  this.  Had 
that  woman  got  clear?  He  went  back  into  the 
drawing-room.  There  they  were — just  passing  the 
side  of  the  house.  Five  minutes,  and  they  would 
be  down  at  the  turning.  He  stood  at  the  window, 
waiting.  If  only  that  fellow  did  not  come  in! 
Through  the  partition  wall  he  could  hear  him  still 
tramping  up  and  down  the  dining-room.  What  a 
long  time  a  minute  was !  Three  had  gone  when 
he  heard  the  dining-room  door  opened,  and  Fiorsen 
crossing  the  hall  to  the  front  door.  What  was  he 
after,  standing  there  as  if  listening?  And  sud- 
denly he  heard  him  sigh.  It  was  just  such  a  sound 
as  many  times,  in  the  long-past  days,  had  escaped 


230  BEYOND 

himself,  waiting,  listening  for  footsteps,  in  parched 
and  sickening  anxiety.  Did  this  fellow  then  really 
love — almost  as  he  had  loved?  And  in  revolt  at 
spying  on  him  like  this,  he  advanced  and  said: 

"Well,  I  won't  wait  any  longer." 

Fiorsen  started;  he  had  evidently  supposed  him- 
self alone.  And  Winton  thought:  'By  Jove!  he 
does  look  bad ! ' 

"Good-bye!"  he  said;  but  the  words:  "Give  my 
love  to  Gyp,"  perished  on  their  way  up  to  his  lips. 

"  Good-bye ! "  Fiorsen  echoed.  And  Winton  went 
out  under  the  trellis,  conscious  of  that  forlorn  figure 
still  standing  at  the  half -opened  door.  Betty  was 
nowhere  in  sight;  she  must  have  reached  the  turn- 
ing. His  mission  had  succeeded,  but  he  felt  no  ela- 
tion. Round  the  corner,  he  picked  up  his  convoy, 
and,  with  the  perambulator  hoisted  on  to  the  taxi, 
journeyed  on  at  speed.  He  had  said  he  would  ex- 
plain in  the  cab,  but  the  only  remark  he  made 
was: 

"You'll  all  go  down  to  Mildenham  to-morrow." 

And  Betty,  who  had  feared  him  ever  since  their 
encounter  so  many  years  ago,  eyed  his  profile,  with- 
out daring  to  ask  questions.  Before  he  reached 
home,  Winton  stopped  at  a  post-office,  and  sent 
this  telegram: 

"Gyp  and  the  baby  are  with  me  letter  follows. — 
Winton." 

It  salved  a  conscience  on  which  that  fellow's  figure 
in  the  doorway  weighed;   besides,  it  was  necessary, 


BEYOND  231 

lest  Fiorsen  should  go  to  the  police.  The  rest  must 
wait  till  he  had  talked  with  Gyp. 

There  was  much  to  do,  and  it  was  late  before 
they  dined,  and  not  till  Markey  had  withdrawn 
could  they  begin  their  talk. 

Close  to  the  open  windows  where  Markey  had 
placed  two  hydrangea  plants — just  bought  on  his 
own  responsibility,  in  token  of  silent  satisfaction — 
Gyp  began.  She  kept  nothing  back,  recounting 
the  whole  miserable  fiasco  of  her  marriage.  When 
she  came  to  Daphne  Wing  and  her  discovery  in 
the  music-room,  she  could  see  the  glowing  end  of 
her  father's  cigar  move  convulsively.  That  insult 
to  his  adored  one  seemed  to  Winton  so  inconceiv- 
able that,  for  a  moment,  he  stopped  her  recital 
by  getting  up  to  pace  the  room.  In  her  own  house 
— her  own  house !  And — after  that,  she  had  gone 
on  with  him !  He  came  back  to  his  chair  and  did 
not  interrupt  again,  but  his  stillness  almost  fright- 
ened her. 

Coming  to  the  incidents  of  the  day  itself,  she 
hesitated.  Must  she  tell  him,  too,  of  Rosek — was 
it  wise,  or  necessary?  The  all-or-nothing  candour 
that  was  part  of  her  nature  prevailed,  and  she 
went  straight  on,  and,  save  for  the  feverish  jerk- 
ing of  his  evening  shoe,  Winton  made  no  sign. 
When  she  had  finished,  he  got  up  and  slowly  ex- 
tinguished the  end  of  his  cigar  against  the  win- 
dow-sill; then  looking  at  her  lying  back  in  her 
chair  as  if  exhausted,  he  said:  "By  God!"  and 
turned  his  face  away  to  the  window. 


232  BEYOND 

At  that  hour  before  the  theatres  rose,  a  lull 
brooded  in  the  London  streets;  in  this  quiet  nar- 
row one,  the  town's  hum  was  only  broken  by  the 
clack  of  a  half-drunken  woman  bickering  at  her 
man  as  they  lurched  along  for  home,  and  the  strains 
of  a  street  musician's  fiddle,  trying  to  make  up  for 
a  blank  day.  The  sound  vaguely  irritated  Winton, 
reminding  him  of  those  two  damnable  foreigners 
by  whom  she  had  been  so  treated.  To  have  them 
at  the  point  of  a  sword  or  pistol — to  teach  them  a 
lesson !    He  heard  her  say: 

"Dad,  I  should  like  to  pay  his  debts.  Then 
things  would  be  as  they  were  when  I  married  him." 

He  emitted  an  exasperated  sound.  He  did  not 
believe  in  heaping  coals  of  fire. 

"I  want  to  make  sure,  too,  that  the  girl  is  all 
right  till  she's  over  her  trouble.  Perhaps  I  could 
use  some  of  that — that  other  money,  if  mine  is  all 
tied  up?" 

It  was  sheer  anger,  not  disapproval  of  her  im- 
pulse, that  made  him  hesitate;  money  and  revenge 
would  never  be  associated  in  his  mind.  Gyp  went 
on: 

"I  want  to  feel  as  if  I'd  never  let  him  marry 
me.  Perhaps  his  debts  are  all  part  of  that — who 
knows?    Please!" 

Winton  looked  at  her.  How  like — when  she  said 
that  "Please!"  How  like — her  figure  sunk  back 
in  the  old  chair,  and  the  face  Uf ted  in  shadow !  A 
sort  of  exultation  came  to  him.  He  had  got  her 
back — had  got  her  back ! 


XVIII 

Fiorsen's  bedroom  was — as  the  maid  would 
remark — "a  proper  pigsty" — until  he  was  out  of 
it  and  it  could  be  renovated  each  day.  He  had  a 
talent  for  disorder,  so  that  the  room  looked  as  if 
three  men  instead  of  one  had  gone  to  bed  in  it. 
Clothes  and  shoes,  brushes,  water,  tumblers,  break- 
fast-tray, newspapers,  French  novels,  and  cigarette- 
ends — none  were  ever  where  they  should  have 
been;  and  the  stale  fumes  from  the  many  cigarettes 
he  smoked  before  getting  up  incommoded  anyone 
whose  duty  it  was  to  take  him  tea  and  shaving- 
water.  When,  on  that  first  real  summer  day,  the 
maid  had  brought  Rosek  up  to  him,  he  had  been 
lying  a  long  time  on  his  back,  dreamily  watch- 
ing the  smoke  from  his  cigarette  and  four  flies 
waltzing  in  the  sunlight  that  filtered  through  the 
green  sun-blinds.  This  hour,  before  he  rose,  was 
his  creative  moment,  when  he  could  best  see  the 
form  of  music  and  feel  inspiration  for  its  render- 
ing. Of  late,  he  had  been  stale  and  wretched,  all 
that  side  of  him  dull;  but  this  morning  he  felt  again 
the  delicious  stir  of  fancy,  that  vibrating,  half- 
dreamy  state  when  emotion  seems  so  easily  to  find 
shape  and  the  mind  pierces  through  to  new  expres- 
sion. Hearing  the  maid's  knock,  and  her  mur- 
mured: "Count  Rosek  to  see  you,  sir,"  he  thought: 
'What  the  devil  does  he  want?'    A  larger  nature, 

233 


234  BEYOND 

drifting  without  control,  in  contact  with  a  smaller 
one,  who  knows  his  own  mind  exactly,  will  in- 
stinctively be  irritable,  though  he  may  fail  to  grasp 
what  his  friend  is  after. 

And  pushing  the  cigarette-box  toward  Rosek, 
he  turned  away  his  head.  It  would  be  money  he 
had  come  about,  or — that  girl!  That  girl — he 
wished  she  was  dead !  Soft,  clinging  creature !  A 
baby !  God !  What  a  fool  he  had  been — ah,  what 
a  fool !  Such  absurdity  !  Unheard  of  !  First  Gyp 
— then  her!  He  had  tried  to  shake  the  girl  off. 
As  well  try  to  shake  off  a  burr!  How  she  clung! 
He  had  been  patient — oh,  yes — patient  and  kind, 
but  how  go  on  when  one  was  tired — tired  of  her — 
and  wanting  only  Gyp,  only  his  own  wife?  That 
was  a  funny  thing!  And  now,  when,  for  an  hour 
or  two,  he  had  shaken  free  of  worry,  had  been  feel- 
ing happy — yes,  happy — this  fellow  must  come, 
and  stand  there  with  his  face  of  a  sphinx!  And 
he  said  pettishly: 

"Well,  Paul!  sit  down.  What  troubles  have 
you  brought?" 

Rosek  lit  a  cigarette  but  did  not  sit  down.  He 
struck  even  Fiorsen  by  his  unsmiling  pallor. 

"You  had  better  look  out  for  Mr.  Wagge,  Gus- 
tav;  he  came  to  me  yesterday.  He  has  no  music 
in  his  soul." 

Fiorsen  sat  up. 

"Satan  take  Mr.  Wagge!    What  can  he  do?" 

"I  am  not  a  lawyer,  but  I  imagine  he  can  be  un- 
pleasant— the  girl  is  young." 


BEYOND  235 

Fiorsen  glared  at  him,  and  said: 

"Why  did  you  throw  me  that  cursed  girl?" 

Rosek  answered,  a  little  too  steadily: 

"I  did  not,  my  friend." 

"What !  You  did.  What  was  your  game?  You 
never  do  anything  without  a  game.  You  know  you 
did.     Come;  what  was  your  game?" 

"You  like  pleasure,  I  believe." 

Fiorsen  said  violently: 

"Look  here:  I  have  done  with  your  friendship — 
you  are  no  friend  to  me.  I  have  never  really  known 
you,  and  I  should  not  wish  to.  It  is  finished.  Leave 
me  in  peace." 

Rosek  smiled. 

"My  dear,  that  is  all  very  well,  but  friendships 
are  not  finished  like  that.  Moreover,  you  owe  me 
a  thousand  pounds." 

"  Well,  I  will  pay  it."  Rosek's  eyebrows  mounted. 
"I  will.     Gyp  will  lend  it  to  me." 

"Oh !  Is  Gyp  so  fond  of  you  as  that?  I  thought 
she  only  loved  her  music-lessons." 

Crouching  forward  with  his  knees  drawn  up,  Fior- 
sen hissed  out: 

"Don't  talk  of  Gyp!  Get  out  of  this!  I  will 
pay  you  your  thousand  pounds." 

Rosek,  still  smiling,  answered: 

"  Gustav,  don't  be  a  fool !  With  a  violin  to  your 
shoulder,  you  are  a  man.  Without — you  are  a 
child.  Lie  quiet,  my  friend,  and  think  of  Mr. 
Wagge.  But  you  had  better  come  and  talk  it  over 
with  me.     Good-bye  for  the  moment.     Calm  your- 


236  BEYOND 

self."  And,  nipping  the  ash  off  his  cigarette  on  to 
the  tray  by  Fiorsen's  elbow,  he  nodded  and  went. 

Fiorsen,  who  had  leaped  out  of  bed,  put  his  hand 
to  his  head.  The  cursed  fellow !  Cursed  be  every 
one  of  them — the  father  and  the  girl,  Rosek  and  all 
the  other  sharks !  He  went  out  on  to  the  landing. 
The  house  was  quite  still  below.  Rosek  had  gone — 
good  riddance!  He  called,  "Gyp!"  No  answer. 
He  went  into  her  room.  Its  superlative  daintiness 
struck  his  fancy.  A  scent  of  cyclamen !  He  looked 
out  into  the  garden.  There  was  the  baby  at  the 
end,  and  that  fat  woman.  No  Gyp!  Never  in 
when  she  was  wanted.  Wagge!  He  shivered;  and, 
going  back  into  his  bedroom,  took  a  brandy-bottle 
from  a  locked  cupboard  and  drank  some.  It  stead- 
ied him;  he  locked  up  the  cupboard  again,  and 
dressed. 

Going  out  to  the  music-room,  he  stopped  under 
the  trees  to  make  passes  with  his  fingers  at  the  baby. 
Sometimes  he  felt  that  it  was  an  adorable  little 
creature,  with  its  big,  dark  eyes  so  like  Gyp's. 
Sometimes  it  excited  his  disgust — a  discoloured  brat. 
This  morning,  while  looking  at  it,  he  thought  sud- 
denly of  the  other  that  was  coming — and  grimaced. 
Catching  Betty's  stare  of  horrified  amazement  at 
the  face  he  was  making  at  her  darling,  he  burst 
into  a  laugh  and  turned  away  into  the  music-room. 

While  he  was  keying  up  his  violin,  Gyp's  conduct 
in  never  having  come  there  for  so  long  struck  him 
as  bitterly  unjust.  The  girl — who  cared  about  the 
wretched  girl  ?    As  if  she  made  any  real  difference ! 


BEYOND  237 

It  was  all  so  much  deeper  than  that.  Gyp  had 
never  loved  him,  never  given  him  what  he  wanted, 
never  quenched  his  thirst  of  her!  That  was  the 
heart  of  it.  No  other  woman  he  had  ever  had  to 
do  with  had  been  like  that — kept  his  thirst  un- 
quenched.  No;  he  had  always  tired  of  them  before 
they  tired  of  him.  She  gave  him  nothing  really — 
nothing!  Had  she  no  heart  or  did  she  give  it 
elsewhere  ?  What  was  that  Paul  had  said  about  her 
music-lessons  ?  And  suddenly  it  struck  him  that  he 
knew  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  of  where  she  went 
or  what  she  did.  She  never  told  him  anything. 
Music-lessons?  Every  day,  nearly,  she  went  out, 
was  away  for  hours.  The  thought  that  she  might 
go  to  the  arms  of  another  man  made  him  put  down 
his  violin  with  a  feeling  of  actual  sickness.  Why 
not  ?  That  deep  and  fearful  whipping  of  the  sexual 
instinct  which  makes  the  ache  of  jealousy  so  truly 
terrible  was  at  its  full  in  such  a  nature  as  Fiorsen's. 
He  drew  a  long  breath  and  shuddered.  The  re- 
membrance of  her  fastidious  pride,  her  candour, 
above  all  her  passivity  cut  in  across  his  fear.  No, 
not  Gyp ! 

He  went  to  a  little  table  whereon  stood  a  tantalus, 
tumblers,  and  a  syphon,  and  pouring  out  some 
brandy,  drank.  It  steadied  him.  And  he  began  to 
practise.  He  took  a  passage  from  Brahms'  violin 
concerto  and  began  to  play  it  over  and  over.  Sud- 
denly, he  found  he  was  repeating  the  same  flaws 
each  time;  he  was  not  attending.  The  fingering  of 
that  thing  was  ghastly !    Music-lessons !    Why  did 


238  BEYOND 

she  take  them?  Waste  of  time  and  money — she 
would  never  be  anything  but  an  amateur!  Ugh! 
Unconsciously,  he  had  stopped  playing.  Had  she 
gone  there  to-day?  It  was  past  lunch- time.  Per- 
haps she  had  come  in. 

He  put  down  his  violin  and  went  back  to  the 
house.  No  sign  of  her !  The  maid  came  to  ask  if 
he  would  lunch.  No !  Was  the  mistress  to  be  in  ? 
She  had  not  said.  He  went  into  the  dining-room, 
ate  a  biscuit,  and  drank  a  brandy  and  soda.  It 
steadied  him.  Lighting  a  cigarette,  he  came  back 
to  the  drawing-room  and  sat  down  at  Gyp's  bureau. 
How  tidy !  On  the  little  calendar,  a  pencil-cross 
was  set  against  to-day — Wednesday,  another  against 
Friday.  What  for  ?  Music-lessons !  He  reached  to 
a  pigeon-hole,  and  took  out  her  address-book. 
"H — Harmost,  305A,  Marylebone  Road,"  and 
against  it  the  words  in  pencil,  "3  p.m." 

Three  o'clock.  So  that  was  her  hour !  His  eyes 
rested  idly  on  a  little  old  coloured  print  of  a  Bac- 
chante, with  flowing  green  scarf,  shaking  a  tam- 
bourine at  a  naked  Cupid,  who  with  a  baby  bow  and 
arrow  in  his  hands,  was  gazing  up  at  her.  He  turned 
it  over;  on  the  back  was  written  in  a  pointed,  scrig- 
gly  hand,  "To  my  little  friend. — E.  H."  Fiorsen 
drew  smoke  deep  down  into  his  lungs,  expelled  it 
slowly,  and  went  to  the  piano.  He  opened  it  and 
began  to  play,  staring  vacantly  before  him,  the 
cigarette  burned  nearly  to  his  lips.  He  went  on, 
scarcely  knowing  what  he  played.  At  last  he 
stopped,  and  sat  dejected.  A  great  artist?  Often, 
nowadays,  he  did  not  care  if  he  never  touched  a 


BEYOND  239 

violin  again.  Tired  of  standing  up  before  a  sea  of 
dull  faces,  seeing  the  blockheads  knock  their  silly 
hands  one  against  the  other !  Sick  of  the  sameness 
of  it  all !  Besides — besides,  were  his  powers  begin- 
ning to  fail?    What  was  happening  to  him  of  late? 

He  got  up,  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  drank 
some  brandy.  Gyp  could  not  bear  his  drinking. 
Well,  she  shouldn't  be  out  so  much — taking  music- 
lessons.  Music-lessons!  Nearly  three  o'clock.  If 
he  went  for  once  and  saw  what  she  really  did — 
Went,  and  offered  her  his  escort  home !  An  atten- 
tion. It  might  please  her.  Better,  anyway,  than 
waiting  here  until  she  chose  to  come  in  with  her  face 
all  closed  up.  He  drank  a  little  more  brandy — ever 
so  little — took  his  hat  and  went.  Not  far  to  walk, 
but  the  sun  was  hot,  and  he  reached  the  house  feel- 
ing rather  dizzy.  A  maid-servant  opened  the  door 
to  him. 

"I  am  Mr.  Fiorsen.     Mrs.  Fiorsen  here?" 

"Yes,  sir;  will  you  wait?" 

Why  did  she  look  at  him  like  that?  Ugly  girl! 
How  hateful  ugly  people  were !  When  she  was 
gone,  he  reopened  the  door  of  the  waiting-room,  and 
listened. 

Chopin !  The  polonaise  in  A  flat.  Good !  Could 
that  be  Gyp  ?  Very  good !  He  moved  out,  down 
the  passage,  drawn  on  by  her  playing,  and  softly 
turned  the  handle.  The  music  stopped.  He  went 
in. 

When  Winton  had  left  him,  an  hour  and  a  half 
later  that  afternoon,  Fiorsen  continued  to  stand  at 


240  BEYOND 

the  front  door,  swaying  his  body  to  and  fro.  The 
brandy-nurtured  burst  of  jealousy  which  had  made 
him  insult  his  wife  and  old  Monsieur  Harmost  had 
died  suddenly  when  Gyp  turned  on  him  in  the  street 
and  spoke  in  that  icy  voice;  since  then  he  had  felt 
fear,  increasing  every  minute.  Would  she  forgive? 
To  one  who  always  acted  on  the  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment, so  that  he  rarely  knew  afterward  exactly 
what  he  had  done,  or  whom  hurt,  Gyp's  self-control 
had  ever  been  mysterious  and  a  little  frightening. 
Where  had  she  gone?  Why  did  she  not  come  in? 
Anxiety  is  like  a  ball  that  rolls  down-hill,  gathering 
momentum.  Suppose  she  did  not  come  back !  But 
she  must — there  was  the  baby — their  baby ! 

For  the  first  time,  the  thought  of  it  gave  him  un- 
alloyed satisfaction.  He  left  the  door,  and,  after 
drinking  a  glass  to  steady  him,  flung  himself  down 
on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room.  And  while  he  lay 
there,  the  brandy  warm  within  him,  he  thought:  'I 
will  turn  over  a  new  leaf;  give  up  drink,  give  up 
everything,  send  the  baby  into  the  country,  take 
Gyp  to  Paris,  Berlin,  Vienna,  Rome — anywhere  out 
of  this  England,  anywhere,  away  from  that  father 
of  hers  and  all  these  stiff,  dull  folk!  She  will  like 
that — she  loves  travelling!'  Yes,  they  would  be 
happy !  Delicious  nights — delicious  days — air  that 
did  not  weigh  you  down  and  make  you  feel  that 
you  must  drink — real  inspiration — real  music !  The 
acrid  wood-smoke  scent  of  Paris  streets,  the  glisten- 
ing cleanness  of  the  Thiergarten,  a  serenading  song 
in  a  Florence  back  street,  fireflies  in  the  summer 


BEYOND  241 

dusk  at  Sorrento — he  had  intoxicating  memories  of 
them  all !  Slowly  the  warmth  of  the  brandy  died 
away,  and,  despite  the  heat,  he  felt  chill  and  shud- 
dery.  He  shut  his  eyes,  thinking  to  sleep  till  she 
came  in.  But  very  soon  he  opened  them,  because 
— a  thing  usual  with  him  of  late — he  saw  such  ugly 
things — faces,  vivid,  changing  as  he  looked,  grow- 
ing ugly  and  uglier,  becoming  all  holes — holes — 
horrible  holes —  Corruption — matted,  twisted,  dark 
human-tree-roots  of  faces !  Horrible !  He  opened 
his  eyes,  for  when  he  did  that,  they  always  went.  It 
was  very  silent.  No  sound  from  above.  No  sound 
of  the  dogs.     He  would  go  up  and  see  the  baby. 

While  he  was  crossing  the  hall,  there  came  a  ring. 
He  opened  the  door  himself.  A  telegram !  He  tore 
the  envelope. 

"Gyp  and  the  baby  are  with  me  letter  follows. — 
Winton." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh,  shut  the  door  in  the  boy's 
face,  and  ran  up-stairs;  why — heaven  knew !  There 
was  nobody  there  now !  Nobody !  Did  it  mean 
that  she  had  really  left  him — was  not  coming  back? 
He  stopped  by  the  side  of  Gyp's  bed,  and  flinging 
himself  forward,  lay  across  it,  burying  his  face.  And 
he  sobbed,  as  men  will,  unmanned  by  drink.  Had 
he  lost  her?  Never  to  see  her  eyes  closing  and 
press  his  lips  against  them!  Never  to  soak  his 
senses  in  her  loveliness!  He  leaped  up,  with  the 
tears  still  wet  on  his  face.  Lost  her  ?  Absurd ! 
That  calm,  prim,  devilish  Englishman,  her  father — 


242  BEYOND 

he  was  to  blame — he  had  worked  it  all — stealing  the 
baby! 

He  went  down-stairs  and  drank  some  brandy.  It 
steadied  him  a  little.  What  should  he  do?  "Let- 
ter follows."  Drink,  and  wait  ?  Go  to  Bury  Street  ? 
No.     Drink !    Enjoy  himself ! 

He  laughed,  and,  catching  up  his  hat,  went  out, 
walking  furiously  at  first,  then  slower  and  slower, 
for  his  head  began  to  whirl,  and,  taking  a  cab,  was 
driven  to  a  restaurant  in  Soho.  He  had  eaten  noth- 
ing but  a  biscuit  since  his  breakfast,  always  a  small 
matter,  and  ordered  soup  and  a  flask  of  their  best 
Chianti — solids  he  could  not  face.  More  than  two 
hours  he  sat,  white  and  silent,  perspiration  on  his 
forehead,  now  and  then  grinning  and  flourishing  his 
fingers,  to  the  amusement  and  sometimes  the  alarm 
of  those  sitting  near.  But  for  being  known  there, 
he  would  have  been  regarded  with  suspicion.  About 
half-past  nine,  there  being  no  more  wine,  he  got  up, 
put  a  piece  of  gold  on  the  table,  and  went  out  with- 
out waiting  for  his  change. 

In  the  streets,  the  lamps  were  lighted,  but  daylight 
was  not  quite  gone.  He  walked  unsteadily,  toward 
Piccadilly.  A  girl  of  the  town  passed  and  looked 
up  at  him.  Staring  hard,  he  hooked  his  arm  in  hers 
without  a  word;  it  steadied  him,  and  they  walked 
on  thus  together.     Suddenly  he  said: 

"Well,  girl,  are  you  happy?"  The  girl  stopped 
and  tried  to  disengage  her  arm;  a  rather  frightened 
look  had  come  into  her  dark-eyed  powdered  face. 
Fiorsen  laughed,  and  held  it  firm.     "When  the  un- 


BEYOND  243 

happy  meet,  they  walk  together.  Come  on!  You 
are  just  a  little  like  my  wife.  Will  you  have  a 
drink?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  and,  with  a  sudden 
movement,  slipped  her  arm  out  of  this  madman's 
and  dived  away  like  a  swallow  through  the  pavement 
traffic.  Fiorsen  stood  still  and  laughed  with  his 
head  thrown  back.  The  second  time  to-day  She 
had  slipped  from  his  grasp.  Passers  looked  at  him, 
amazed.  The  ugly  devils !  And  with  a  grimace,  he 
turned  out  of  Piccadilly,  past  St.  James's  Church, 
making  for  Bury  Street.  They  wouldn't  let  him 
in,  of  course — not  they!  But  he  would  look  at 
the  windows;  they  had  flower-boxes — flower-boxes! 
And,  suddenly,  he  groaned  aloud — he  had  thought 
of  Gyp's  figure  busy  among  the  flowers  at  home. 
Missing  the  right  turning,  he  came  in  at  the  bottom 
of  the  street.  A  fiddler  in  the  gutter  was  scraping 
away  on  an  old  violin.  Fiorsen  stopped  to  listen. 
Poor  devil!  "Pagliacci!"  Going  up  to  the  man — 
dark,  lame,  very  shabby,  he  took  out  some  silver, 
and  put  his  other  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder. 

"Brother,"  he  said,  "lend  me  your  fiddle.  Here's 
money  for  you.  Come;  lend  it  to  me.  I  am  a  great 
violinist." 

1 '  V raiment,  monsieur  ! ' ' 

"Ah!  Vraiment!  Voyons!  Donnez — un  instant 
— vous  verrez." 

The  fiddler,  doubting  but  hypnotized,  handed  him 
the  fiddle;  his  dark  face  changed  when  he  saw  this 
stranger  fling  it  up  to  his  shoulder  and  the  ways  of 


244  BEYOND 

his  fingers  with  bow  and  strings.  Fiorsen  had  be- 
gun to  walk  up  the  street,  his  eyes  searching  for  the 
flower-boxes.  He  saw  them,  stopped,  and  began 
playing  "Che  jaroV  He  played  it  wonderfully  on 
that  poor  fiddle;  and  the  fiddler,  who  had  followed 
at  his  elbow,  stood  watching  him,  uneasy,  envious, 
but  a  little  entranced.  Sapristi!  This  tall,  pale 
monsieur  with  the  strange  face  and  the  eyes  that 
looked  drunk  and  the  hollow  chest,  played  like  an 
angel!  Ah,  but  it  was  not  so  easy  as  all  that  to 
make  money  in  the  streets  of  this  sacred  town !  You 
might  play  like  forty  angels  and  not  a  copper !  He 
had  begun  another  tune — like  little  pluckings  at 
your  heart — tres  joli — tout  a  fait  ecceurant!  Ah, 
there  it  was — a  monsieur  as  usual  closing  the  win- 
dow, drawing  the  curtains !  Always  same  thing ! 
The  violin  and  the  bow  were  thrust  back  into  his 
hands;  and  the  tall  strange  monsieur  was  off  as  if 
devils  were  after  him — not  badly  drunk,  that  one ! 
And  not  a  sou  thrown  down !  With  an  uneasy  feel- 
ing that  he  had  been  involved  in  something  that  he 
did  not  understand,  the  lame,  dark  fiddler  limped 
his  way  round  the  nearest  corner,  and  for  two 
streets  at  least  did  not  stop.  Then,  counting  the 
silver  Fiorsen  had  put  into  his  hand  and  carefully 
examining  his  fiddle,  he  used  the  word,  "  Bigre  /"  and 
started  for  home. 


XIX 

Gyp  hardly  slept  at  all.  Three  times  she  got  up, 
and,  stealing  to  the  door,  looked  in  at  her  sleeping 
baby,  whose  face  in  its  new  bed  she  could  just  see 
by  the  night-light's  glow.  The  afternoon  had  shaken 
her  nerves.  Nor  was  Betty's  method  of  breathing 
while  asleep  conducive  to  the  slumber  of  anything 
but  babies.  It  was  so  hot,  too,  and  the  sound  of  the 
violin  still  in  her  ears.  By  that  little  air  of  Poise, 
she  had  known  for  certain  it  was  Fiorsen;  and  her 
father's  abrupt  drawing  of  the  curtains  had  clinched 
that  certainty.  If  she  had  gone  to  the  window  and 
seen  him,  she  would  not  have  been  half  so  deeply 
disturbed  as  she  was  by  that  echo  of  an  old  emo- 
tion. The  link  which  yesterday  she  thought  broken 
for  good  was  reforged  in  some  mysterious  way.  The 
sobbing  of  that  old  fiddle  had  been  his  way  of  say- 
ing, "Forgive  me;  forgive!"  To  leave  him  would 
have  been  so  much  easier  if  she  had  really  hated 
him;  but  she  did  not.  However  difficult  it  may  be 
to  live  with  an  artist,  to  hate  him  is  quite  as  diffi- 
cult. An  artist  is  so  flexible — only  the  rigid  can  be 
hated.  She  hated  the  things  he  did,  and  him  when 
he  was  doing  them;  but  afterward  again  could  hate 
him  no  more  than  she  could  love  him,  and  that  was 
— not  at  all.     Resolution  and  a  sense  of  the  prac- 

245 


246  BEYOND 

tical  began  to  come  back  with  daylight.  When 
things  were  hopeless,  it  was  far  better  to  recognize 
it  and  harden  one's  heart. 

Winton,  whose  night  had  been  almost  as  sleepless 
— to  play  like  a  beggar  in  the  street,  under  his  win- 
dows, had  seemed  to  him  the  limit ! — announced  at 
breakfast  that  he  must  see  his  lawyer,  make  ar- 
rangements for  the  payment  of  Fiorsen's  debts,  and 
find  out  what  could  be  done  to  secure  Gyp  against 
persecution.  Some  deed  was  probably  necessary; 
he  was  vague  on  all  such  matters.  In  the  mean- 
time, neither  Gyp  nor  the  baby  must  go  out.  Gyp 
spent  the  morning  writing  and  rewriting  to  Monsieur 
Harmost,  trying  to  express  her  chagrin,  but  not  say- 
ing that  she  had  left  Fiorsen. 

Her  father  came  back  from  Westminster  quiet  and 
angry.  He  had  with  difficulty  been  made  to  under- 
stand that  the  baby  was  Fiorsen's  property,  so  that, 
if  the  fellow  claimed  it,  legally  they  would  be  unable 
to  resist.  The  point  opened  the  old  wound,  forced 
him  to  remember  that  his  own  daughter  had  once 
belonged  to  another — father.  He  had  told  the  law- 
yer in  a  measured  voice  that  he  would  see  the  fellow 
damned  first,  and  had  directed  a  deed  of  separation 
to  be  prepared,  which  should  provide  for  the  com- 
plete payment  of  Fiorsen's  existing  debts  on  condi- 
tion that  he  left  Gyp  and  the  baby  in  peace.  After 
telling  Gyp  this,  he  took  an  opportunity  of  going 
to  the  extempore  nursery  and  standing  by  the  baby's 
cradle.  Until  then,  the  little  creature  had  only  been 
of  interest  as  part  of  Gyp;  now  it  had  for  him  an 


BEYOND  247 

existence  of  its  own — this  tiny,  dark-eyed  creature, 
lying  there,  watching  him  so  gravely,  clutching  his 
finger.  Suddenly  the  baby  smiled — not  a  beautiful 
smile,  but  it  made  on  Winton  an  indelible  impres- 
sion. 

Wishing  first  to  settle  this  matter  of  the  deed,  he 
put  off  going  down  to  Mildenham;  but  "not  trusting 
those  two  scoundrels  a  yard" — for  he  never  failed 
to  bracket  Rosek  and  Fiorsen — he  insisted  that  the 
baby  should  not  go  out  without  two  attendants,  and 
that  Gyp  should  not  go  out  alone.  He  carried  pre- 
caution to  the  point  of  accompanying  her  to  Mon- 
sieur Harmost's  on  the  Friday  afternoon,  and  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  go  in  and  shake  hands  with  the 
old  fellow.  It  was  a  queer  meeting.  Those  two 
had  as  great  difficulty  in  finding  anything  to  say  as 
though  they  were  denizens  of  different  planets.  And 
indeed,  there  are  two  planets  on  this  earth !  When, 
after  a  minute  or  so  of  the  friendliest  embarrass- 
ment, he  had  retired  to  wait  for  her,  Gyp  sat  down 
to  her  lesson. 

Monsieur  Harmost  said  quietly: 

"Your  letter  was  very  kind,  my  little  friend — 
and  your  father  is  very  kind.  But,  after  all,  it 
was  a  compliment  your  husband  paid  me."  His 
smile  smote  Gyp;  it  seemed  to  sum  up  so  many 
resignations.  "  So  you  stay  again  with  your  father ! " 
And,  looking  at  her  very  hard  with  his  melancholy 
brown  eyes,  "When  will  you  find  your  fate,  I  won- 
der?" 

"Never!" 


248  BEYOND 

Monsieur  Harmost's  eyebrows  rose. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "you  think!  No,  that  is  impos- 
sible!" He  walked  twice  very  quickly  up  and 
down  the  room;  then  spinning  round  on  his  heel, 
said  sharply:  "Well,  we  must  not  waste  your 
father's  time.    To  work." 

Winton's  simple  comment  in  the  cab  on  the 
way  home  was: 

"Nice  old  chap!" 

At  Bury  Street,  they  found  Gyp's  agitated  par- 
lour-maid. Going  to  do  the  music-room  that  morn- 
ing, she  had  "found  the  master  sitting  on  the  sofa, 
holding  his  head,  and  groaning  awful.  He's  not 
been  at  home,  ma'am,  since  you — you  went  on  your 
visit,  so  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  ran  for  cook 
and  we  got  him  up  to  bed,  and  not  knowing  where 
you'd  be,  ma'am,  I  telephoned  to  Count  Rosek, 
and  he  came — I  hope  I  didn't  do  wrong — and  he 
sent  me  down  to  see  you.  The  doctor  says  his 
brain's  on  the  touch  and  go,  and  he  keeps  askin' 
for  you,  ma'am.    So  I  didn't  know  what  to  do." 

Gyp,  pale  to  the  lips,  said: 

"Wait  here  a  minute,  Ellen,"  and  went  into  the 
dining-room.  Winton  followed.  She  turned  to 
him  at  once,  and  said: 

"Oh,  Dad,  what  am  I  to  do?  His  brain!  It 
would  be  too  awful  to  feel  I'd  brought  that  about." 

Winton  grunted.     Gyp  went  on: 

"I  must  go  and  see.  If  it's  really  that,  I  couldn't 
bear  it.    I'm  afraid  I  must  go,  Dad." 

Winton  nodded. 


BEYOND  249 

"Well,  I'll  come  too,"  he  said.  "The  girl  can  go 
back  in  the  cab  and  say  we're  on  the  way." 

Taking  a  parting  look  at  her  baby,  Gyp  thought 
bitterly:  'My  fate?  This  is  my  fate,  and  no  getting 
out  of  it!'  On  the  journey,  she  and  Winton  were 
quite  silent — but  she  held  his  hand  tight.  While 
the  cook  was  taking  up  to  Rosek  the  news  of  their 
arrival,  Gyp  stood  looking  out  at  her  garden.  Two 
days  and  six  hours  only  since  she  had  stood  there 
above  her  pansies;  since,  at  this  very  spot,  Rosek 
had  kissed  her  throat !  Slipping  her  hand  through 
Winton's  arm,  she  said: 

"Dad,  please  don't  make  anything  of  that  kiss. 
He  couldn't  help  himself,  I  suppose.  What  does 
it  matter,  too?" 

A  moment  later  Rosek  entered.  Before  she 
could  speak,  Winton  was  saying: 

"Thank  you  for  letting  us  know,  sir.  But  now 
that  my  daughter  is  here,  there  will  be  no  further 
need  for  your  kind  services.    Good-day ! " 

At  the  cruel  curtness  of  those  words,  Gyp  gave 
the  tiniest  start  forward.  She  had  seen  them  go 
through  Rosek's  armour  as  a  sword  through  brown 
paper.  He  recovered  himself  with  a  sickly  smile, 
bowed,  and  went  out.  Winton  followed — pre- 
cisely as  if  he  did  not  trust  him  with  the  hats  in 
the  hall.    When  the  outer  door  was  shut,  he  said: 

"I  don't  think  he'll  trouble  you  again." 

Gyp's  gratitude  was  qualified  by  a  queer  com- 
passion. After  all,  his  offence  had  only  been  that 
of  loving  her. 


250  BEYOND 

Fiorsen  had  been  taken  to  her  room,  which  was 
larger  and  cooler  than  his  own;  and  the  maid  was 
standing  by  the  side  of  the  bed  with  a  scared  face. 
Gyp  signed  to  her  to  go.  He  opened  his  eyes  pres- 
ently: 

"Gyp!  Oh!  Gyp!  Is  it  you?  The  devilish, 
awful  things  I  see— don't  go  away  again!  Oh, 
Gyp!"  With  a  sob  he  raised  himself  and  rested 
his  forehead  against  her.  And  Gyp  felt — as  on  the 
first  night  he  came  home  drunk — a  merging  of  all 
other  emotions  in  the  desire  to  protect  and  heal. 

"It's  all  right,  all  right,"  she  murmured.  "I'm 
going  to  stay.  Don't  worry  about  anything.  Keep 
quite  quiet,  and  you'll  soon  be  well." 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  he  was  asleep.  His 
wasted  look  went  to  her  heart,  and  that  expres- 
sion of  terror  which  had  been  coming  and  going 
until  he  fell  asleep !  Anything  to  do  with  the  brain 
was  so  horrible!  Only  too  clear  that  she  must 
stay — that  his  recovery  depended  on  her.  She  was 
still  sitting  there,  motionless,  when  the  doctor 
came,  and,  seeing  him  asleep,  beckoned  her  out. 
He  looked  a  kindly  man,  with  two  waistcoats,  the 
top  one  unbuttoned;  and  while  he  talked,  he  winked 
at  Gyp  involuntarily,  and,  with  each  wink,  Gyp 
felt  that  he  ripped  the  veil  off  one  more  domestic 
secret.  Sleep  was  the  ticket — the  very  ticket  for 
him !  Had  something  on  his  mind — yes !  And — 
er — a  little  given  to — brandy  ?  Ah  !  all  that  must 
stop !  Stomach  as  well  as  nerves  affected.  Seeing 
things — nasty  things — sure  sign.     Perhaps  not  a 


BEYOND  251 

very  careful  life  before  marriage.  And  married — 
how  long?  His  kindly  appreciative  eyes  swept 
Gyp  from  top  to  toe.  Year  and  a  half !  Quite  so ! 
Hard  worker  at  his  violin,  too  ?  No  doubt !  Musi- 
cians always  a  little  inclined  to  be  immoderate — 
too  much  sense  of  beauty — burn  the  candle  at 
both  ends!  She  must  see  to  that.  She  had  been 
away,  had  she  not — staying  with  her  father?  Yes. 
But — no  one  like  a  wife  for  nursing.  As  to  treat- 
ment ?  Well !  One  would  shove  in  a  dash  of  what 
he  would  prescribe,  night  and  morning.  Perfect 
quiet.  No  stimulant.  A  little  cup  of  strong  coffee 
without  milk,  if  he  seemed  low.  Keep  him  in  bed 
at  present.  No  worry;  no  excitement.  Young 
man  still.  Plenty  of  vitality.  As  to  herself,  no 
undue  anxiety.  To-morrow  they  would  see  whether 
a  night  nurse  would  be  necessary.  Above  all,  no 
violin  for  a  month,  no  alcohol — in  every  way  the 
strictest  moderation!  And  with  a  last  and  friend- 
liest wink,  leaning  heavily  on  that  word  "modera- 
tion," he  took  out  a  stylographic  pen,  scratched  on 
a  leaf  of  his  note-book,  shook  Gyp's  hand,  smiled 
whimsically,  buttoned  his  upper  waistcoat,  and 
departed. 

Gyp  went  back  to  her  seat  by  the  bed.  Irony ! 
She  whose  only  desire  was  to  be  let  go  free,  was 
mainly  responsible  for  his  breakdown!  But  for 
her,  there  would  be  nothing  on  his  mind,  for  he 
would  not  be  married !  Brooding  morbidly,  she 
asked  herself — his  drinking,  debts,  even  the  girl — 
had  she  caused  them,  too?    And  when  she  tried  to 


252  BEYOND 

free  him  and  herself — this  was  the  result!  Was 
there  something  fatal  about  her  that  must  destroy 
the  men  she  had  to  do  with?  She  had  made  her 
father  unhappy,  Monsieur  Harmost — Rosek,  and 
her  husband!  Even  before  she  married,  how  many 
had  tried  for  her  love,  and  gone  away  unhappy! 
And,  getting  up,  she  went  to  a  mirror  and  looked 
at  herself  long  and  sadly. 


XX 

Three  days  after  her  abortive  attempt  to  break 
away,  Gyp,  with  much  heart-searching,  wrote  to 
Daphne  Wing,  telling  her  of  Fiorsen's  illness,  and 
mentioning  a  cottage  near  Mildenham,  where — if 
she  liked  to  go — she  would  be  quite  comfortable 
and  safe  from  all  curiosity,  and  finally  begging  to 
be  allowed  to  make  good  the  losses  from  any  broken 
dance-contracts. 

Next  morning,  she  found  Mr.  Wagge  with  a  tall, 
crape-banded  hat  in  his  black-gloved  hands,  stand- 
ing in  the  very  centre  of  her  drawing-room.  He 
was  staring  into  the  garden,  as  if  he  had  been  vouch- 
safed a  vision  of  that  warm  night  when  the  moon- 
light shed  its  ghostly  glamour  on  the  sunflowers, 
and  his  daughter  had  danced  out  there.  She  had 
a  perfect  view  of  his  thick  red  neck  in  its  turn- 
down collar,  crossed  by  a  black  bow  over  a  shiny 
white  shirt.    And,  holding  out  her  hand,  she  said: 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Wagge?  It  was  kind  of 
you  to  come." 

Mr.  Wagge  turned.  His  pug  face  wore  a  down- 
cast expression. 

"I  hope  I  see  you  well,  ma'am.  Pretty  place 
you  'ave  'ere.  I'm  fond  of  flowers  myself.  They've 
always  been  my  'obby." 

253 


254  BEYOND 

"They're  a  great  comfort  in  London,  aren't 
they?" 

"Ye-es;  I  should  think  you  might  grow  the 
dahlia  here."  And  having  thus  obeyed  the  obscure 
instincts  of  savoir  faire,  satisfied  some  obscurer  de- 
sire to  natter,  he  went  on:  "My  girl  showed  me 
your  letter.  I  didn't  like  to  write;  in  such  a  deli- 
cate matter  I'd  rather  be  vivey  vocey.  Very  kind, 
in  your  position;  I'm  sure  I  appreciate  it.  I  always 
try  to  do  the  Christian  thing  myself.  Flesh  passes; 
you  never  know  when  you  may  have  to  take 
your  turn.  I  said  to  my  girl  I'd  come  and  see 
you." 

"I'm  very  glad.    I  hoped  perhaps  you  would." 

Mr.  Wagge  cleared  his  throat,  and  went  on,  in 
a  hoarser  voice: 

"I  don't  want  to  say  anything  harsh  about  a 
certain  party  in  your  presence,  especially  as  I  read 
he's  indisposed,  but  really  I  hardly  know  how  to 
bear  the  situation.  I  can't  bring  myself  to  think 
of  money  in  relation  to  that  matter;  all  the  same, 
it's  a  serious  loss  to  my  daughter,  very  serious  loss. 
I've  got  my  family  pride  to  think  of.  My  daughter's 
name,  well — it's  my  own;  and,  though  I  say  it, 
I'm  respected — a  regular  attendant — I  think  I  told 
you.  Sometimes,  I  assure  you,  I  feel  I  can't  con- 
trol myself,  and  it's  only  that — and  you,  if  I  may 
say  so,  that  keeps  me  in  check." 

During  this  speech,  his  black-gloved  hands  were 
clenching  and  unclenching,  and  he  shifted  his  broad, 
shining  boots.     Gyp  gazed  at  them,  not  daring  to 


BEYOND  255 

look  up  at  his  eyes  thus  turning  and  turning  from 
Christianity  to  shekels,  from  his  honour  to  the  world, 
from  his  anger  to  herself.    And  she  said: 

"Please  let  me  do  what  I  ask,  Mr.  Wagge.  I 
should  be  so  unhappy  if  I  mightn't  do  that  little 
something." 

Mr.  Wagge  blew  his  nose. 

"It's  a  delicate  matter,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know 
where  my  duty  lays.     I  don't,  reelly." 

Gyp  looked  up  then. 

"The  great  thing  is  to  save  Daisy  suffering,  isn't 
it?" 

Mr.  Wagge's  face  wore  for  a  moment  an  expres- 
sion of  affront,  as  if  from  the  thought:  'Sufferin'! 
You  must  leave  that  to  her  father!'  Then  it  wa- 
vered; the  curious,  furtive  warmth  of  the  attracted 
male  came  for  a  moment  into  his  little  eyes;  he 
averted  them,  and  coughed.     Gyp  said  softly: 

"To  please  me." 

Mr.  Wagge's  readjusted  glance  stopped  in  confu- 
sion at  her  waist.  He  answered,  in  a  voice  that  he 
strove  to  make  bland: 

"If  you  put  it  in  that  way,  I  don't  reelly  know 
'ow  to  refuse;  but  it  must  be  quite  between  you  and 
me — I  can't  withdraw  my  attitude." 

Gyp  murmured: 

"No,  of  course.  Thank  you  so  much;  and  you'll 
let  me  know  about  everything  later.  I  mustn't 
take  up  your  time  now."  And  she  held  out  her 
hand. 

Mr.  Wagge  took  it  in  a  lingering  manner. 


256  BEYOND 

"Well,  I  have  an  appointment,"  he  said;  "a  gen- 
tleman at  Campden  Hill.  He  starts  at  twelve. 
I'm  never  late.     GtfoJ-morning." 

When  she  had  watched  his  square,  black  figure 
pass  through  the  outer  gate,  busily  rebuttoning  those 
shining  black  gloves,  she  went  upstairs  and  washed 
her  face  and  hands. 

For  several  days,  Fiorsen  wavered;  but  his  col- 
lapse had  come  just  in  time,  and  with  every  hour 
the  danger  lessened.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  of  a 
perfectly  white  life,  there  remained  nothing  to  do  in 
the  words  of  the  doctor  but  "to  avoid  all  recurrence 
of  the  predisposing  causes,  and  shove  in  sea  air!" 
Gyp  had  locked  up  all  brandy — and  violins;  she 
could  control  him  so  long  as  he  was  tamed  by  his 
own  weakness.  But  she  passed  some  very  bitter 
hours  before  she  sent  for  her  baby,  Betty,  and  the 
dogs,  and  definitely  took  up  life  in  her  little  house 
again.  His  debts  had  been  paid,  including  the  thou- 
sand pounds  to  Rosek,  and  the  losses  of  Daphne 
Wing.  The  girl  had  gone  down  to  that  cottage 
where  no  one  had  ever  heard  of  her,  to  pass  her 
time  in  lonely  grief  and  terror,  with  the  aid  of  a 
black  dress  and  a  gold  band  on  her  third  finger. 

August  and  the  first  half  of  September  were  spent 
near  Bude.  Fiorsen's  passion  for  the  sea,  a  passion 
Gyp  could  share,  kept  him  singularly  moderate  and 
free  from  restiveness.  He  had  been  thoroughly 
frightened,  and  such  terror  is  not  easily  forgotten. 
They  stayed  in  a  farmhouse,  where  he  was  at  his 


,  BEYOND  257 

best  with  the  simple  folk,  and  his  best  could  be 
charming.  He  was  always  trying  to  get  his  "mer- 
maid," as  he  took  to  calling  Gyp,  away  from  the 
baby,  getting  her  away  to  himself,  along  the  grassy 
cliff  s  and  among  the  rocks  and  yellow  sands  of  that 
free  coast.  His  delight  was  to  rind  every  day  some 
new  nook  where  they  could  bathe,  and  dry  them- 
selves by  sitting  in  the  sun.  And  very  like  a  mer- 
maid she  was,  on  a  seaweedy  rock,  with  her  feet 
close  together  in  a  little  pool,  her  ringers  combing  her 
drowned  hair,  and  the  sun  silvering  her  wet  body. 
If  she  had  loved  him,  it  would  have  been  perfect. 
But  though,  close  to  nature  like  this — there  are  men 
to  whom  towns  are  poison — he  was  so  much  more 
easy  to  bear,  even  to  like,  her  heart  never  opened 
to  him,  never  fluttered  at  his  voice,  or  beat  more 
quickly  under  his  kisses.  One  cannot  regulate  "these 
things.  The  warmth  in  her  eyes  when  they  looked 
at  her  baby,  and  the  coolness  when  they  looked  at 
him,  was  such  that  not  even  a  man,  and  he  an  egoist, 
could  help  seeing;  and  secretly  he  began  to  hate 
that  tiny  rival,  and  she  began  to  notice  that  he 
did. 

As  soon  as  the  weather  broke,  he  grew  restless, 
craving  his  violin,  and  they  went  back  to  town,  in 
robust  health — all  three.  During  those  weeks,  Gyp 
had  never  been  free  of  the  feeling  that  it  was  just  a 
lull,  of  forces  held  up  in  suspense,  and  the  moment 
they  were  back  in  their  house,  this  feeling  gathered 
density  and  darkness,  as  rain  gathers  in  the  sky 
after  a  fine  spell.     She  had  often  thought  of  Daphne 


258  BEYOND 

Wing,  and  had  written  twice,  getting  in  return  one 
na'ive  and  pathetic  answer: 

'Dear  Mrs.  Fiorsen, 

'Oh,  it  is  kind  of  you  to  write,  because  I  know  what  you 
must  be  feeling  about  me;  and  it  was  so  kind  of  you  to  let 
me  come  here.  I  try  not  to  think  about  things,  but  of 
course  I  can't  help  it;  and  I  don't  seem  to  care  what  happens 
now.  Mother  is  coming  down  here  later  on.  Sometimes  I 
lie  awake  all  night,  listening  to  the  wind.  Don't  you  think 
the  wind  is  the  most  melancholy  thing  in  the  world?  I 
wonder  if  I  shall  die?  I  hope  I  shall.  Oh,  I  do,  really! 
Good-bye,  dear  Mrs.  Fiorsen.  I  shall  never  forgive  myself 
about  you. 

'  Your  grateful, 

'  Daphne  Wing.' 

The  girl  had  never  once  been  mentioned  between 
her  and  Fiorsen  since  the  night  when  he  sat  by  her 
bed,  begging  forgiveness;  she  did  not  know  whether 
he  ever  gave  the  little  dancer  and  her  trouble  a 
thought,  or  even  knew  what  had  become  of  her. 
But  now  that  the  time  was  getting  near,  Gyp  felt 
more  and  more  every  day  as  if  she  must  go  down 
and  see  her.  She  wrote  to  her  father,  who,  after  a 
dose  of  Harrogate  with  Aunt  Rosamund,  was  back 
at  Mildenham.  Winton  answered  that  the  nurse 
was  there,  and  that  there  seemed  to  be  a  woman, 
presumably  the  mother,  staying  with  her,  but  that 
he  had  not  of  course  made  direct  inquiry.  Could 
not  Gyp  come  down?  He  was  alone,  and  cubbing 
had  begun.  It  was  like  him  to  veil  his  longings 
under  such  dry  statements.     But  the  thought  of  giv- 


BEYOND  259 

ing  him  pleasure,  and  of  a  gallop  with  hounds  for- 
tified intensely  her  feeling  that  she  ought  to  go. 
Now  that  baby  was  so  well,  and  Fiorsen  still  not 
drinking,  she  might  surely  snatch  this  little  holiday 
and  satisfy  her  conscience  about  the  girl.  Since  the 
return  from  Cornwall,  she  had  played  for  him  in  the 
music-room  just  as  of  old,  and  she  chose  the  finish 
of  a  morning  practice  to  say: 

"Gustav,  I  want  to  go  to  Mildenham  this  after- 
noon for  a  week.     Father's  lonely." 

He  was  putting  away  his  violin,  but  she  saw  his 
neck  grow  red. 

"To  him?  No.  He  will  steal  you  as  he  stole  the 
baby.  Let  him  have  the  baby  if  he  likes.  Not 
you.    No." 

Gyp,  who  was  standing  by  the  piano,  kept  silence 
at  this  unexpected  outburst,  but  revolt  blazed  up  in 
her.  She  never  asked  him  anything;  he  should  not 
refuse  this.  He  came  up  behind  and  put  his  arms 
round  her. 

"My  Gyp,  I  want  you  here — I  am  lonely,  too. 
Don't  go  away." 

She  tried  to  force  his  arms  apart,  but  could  not, 
and  her  anger  grew.     She  said  coldly: 

"There's  another  reason  why  I  must  go." 

"No,  no!  No  good  reason — to  take  you  from 
me." 

"There  is!  The  girl  who  is  just  going  to  have 
your  child  is  staying  near  Mildenham,  and  I  want 
to  see  how  she  is." 

He  let  go  of  her  then,  and  recoiling  against  the 


260  BEYOND 

divan,  sat  down.  And  Gyp  thought:  'I'm  sorry.  I 
didn't  mean  to — but  it  serves  him  right.' 

He  muttered,  in  a  dull  voice: 

"Oh,  I  hoped  she  was  dead." 

"Yes!  For  all  you  care,  she  might  be.  I'm 
going,  but  you  needn't  be  afraid  that  I  shan't  come 
back.     I  shall  be  back  to-day  week;  I  promise." 

He  looked  at  her  fixedly. 

"Yes.  You  don't  break  your  promises;  you  will 
not  break  it."  But,  suddenly,  he  said  again:  "Gyp, 
don't  go!" 

"I  must." 

He  got  up  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"Say  you  love  me,  then!" 

But  she  could  not.  It  was  one  thing  to  put  up 
with  embraces,  quite  another  to  pretend  that.  When 
at  last  he  was  gone,  she  sat  smoothing  her  hair,  star- 
ing before  her  with  hard  eyes,  thinking:  "Here — 
where  I  saw  him  with  that  girl !  What  animals  men 
are!" 

Late  that  afternoon,  she  reached  Mildenham. 
Winton  met  her  at  the  station.  And  on  the  drive 
up,  they  passed  the  cottage  where  Daphne  Wing 
was  staying.  It  stood  in  front  of  a  small  coppice,  a 
creepered,  plain-fronted,  little  brick  house,  with  a 
garden  still  full  of  sunflowers,  tenanted  by  the  old 
jockey,  Pettance,  his  widowed  daughter,  and  her 
three  small  children.  "That  talkative  old  scoun- 
drel," as  Winton  always  called  him,  was  still  em- 
ployed in  the  Mildenham  stables,  and  his  daughter 


BEYOND  261 

was  laundress  to  the  establishment.  Gyp  had  se- 
cured for  Daphne  Wing  the  same  free,  independent, 
economic  agent  who  had  watched  over  her  own 
event;  the  same  old  doctor,  too,  was  to  be  the  pre- 
siding deity.  There  were  no  signs  of  life  about  the 
cottage,  and  she  would  not  stop,  too  eager  to  be  at 
home  again,  to  see  the  old  rooms,  and  smell  the  old 
savour  of  the  house,  to  get  to  her  old  mare,  and  feel 
its  nose  nuzzling  her  for  sugar.  It  was  so  good  to 
be  back  once  more,  feeling  strong  and  well  and  able 
to  ride.  The  smile  of  the  inscrutable  Markey  at 
the  front  door  was  a  joy  to  her,  even  the  darkness 
of  the  hall,  where  a  gleam  of  last  sunlight  fell  across 
the  skin  of  Winton's  first  tiger,  on  which  she  had 
so  often  sunk  down  dead  tired  after  hunting.  Ah,  it 
was  nice  to  be  at  home ! 

In  her  mare's  box,  old  Pettance  was  putting  a  last 
touch  to  cleanliness.  His  shaven,  skin-tight,  wicked 
old  face,  smiled  deeply.     He  said  in  honeyed  tones : 

"Good  evenin',  miss;  beautiful  evenin',  ma'am!" 
And  his  little  burning  brown  eyes,  just  touched  by 
age,  regarded  her  lovingly. 

"  Well,  Pettance,  how  are  you  ?  And  how's  Annie, 
and  how  are  the  children?  And  how's  this  old 
darling  ?  " 

"Wonderful,  miss;  artful  as  a  kitten.  Carry  you 
like  a  bird  to-morrow,  if  you're  goin'  out." 

"How  are  her  legs?" 

And  while  Gyp  passed  her  hand  down  those  iron 
legs,  the  old  mare  examined  her  down  the  back  of 
her  neck. 


262  BEYOND 

"They  'aven't  filled  not  once  since  she  come  in — 
she  was  out  all  July  and  August;  but  I've  kept  'er 
well  at  it  since,  in  'opes  you  might  be  comin'." 

"They  feel  splendid."  And,  still  bending  down, 
Gyp  asked:  "And  how  is  your  lodger — the  young 
lady  I  sent  you?" 

"Well,  ma'am,  she's  very  young,  and  these  very 
young  ladies  they  get  a  bit  excited,  you  know,  at 
such  times;  I  should  say  she've  never  been — " 
With  obvious  difficulty  he  checked  the  words,  "to 
an 'orse  before ! "  "  Well,  you  must  expect  it.  And 
her  mother,  she's  a  dreadful  funny  one,  miss.  She 
does  needle  me !  Oh,  she  puts  my  back  up  properly ! 
No  class,  of  course — that's  where  it  is.  But  this  'ere 
nurse — well,  you  know,  miss,  she  won't  'ave  no 
nonsense;  so  there  we  are.  And,  of  course,  you're 
bound  to  'ave  'ighsteria,  a  bit — losin'  her  'usband  as 
young  as  that." 

Gyp  could  feel  his  wicked  old  smile  even  before 
she  raised  herself.  But  what  did  it  matter  if  he  did 
guess?    She  knew  he  would  keep  a  stable  secret. 

"Oh,  we've  'ad  some  pretty  flirts-up  and  cryin', 
dear  me !  I  sleeps  in  the  next  room — oh,  yes,  at 
night-time — when  you're  a  widder  at  that  age,  you 
can't  expect  nothin'  else.  I  remember  when  I  was 
ridin'  in  Ireland  for  Captain  O'Neill,  there  was  a 
young  woman " 

Gyp  thought:  'I  mustn't  let  him  get  off — or  I 
shall  be  late  for  dinner/  and  she  said: 

"Oh,  Pettance,  who  bought  the  young  brown 
horse  ?  " 


BEYOND  263 

"Mr.  Bryn  Summer'ay,  ma'am,  over  at  Widring- 
ton,  for  an  'unter,  and  'ack  in  town,  miss." 

"Summerhay  ?  Ah !"  With  a  touch  of  the  whip 
to  her  memory,  Gyp  recalled  the  young  man  with 
the  clear  eyes  and  teasing  smile,  on  the  chestnut 
mare,  the  bold  young  man  who  reminded  her  of 
somebody,  and  she  added: 

"That'll  be  a  good  home  for  him,  I  should  think.'' 

"Oh,  yes,  miss;  good  'ome — nice  gentleman,  too. 
He  come  over  here  to  see  it,  and  asked  after  you. 
I  told  'im  you  was  a  married  lady  now,  miss.  'Ah,' 
he  said;  'she  rode  beautiful!'  And  he  remembered 
the  'orse  well.  The  major,  he  wasn't  'ere  just  then, 
so  I  let  him  try  the  young  un;  he  popped  'im  over  a 
fence  or  two,  and  when  he  come  back  he  says, 
1  Well,  I'm  goin'  to  have  'im.'  Speaks  very  pleasant, 
an'  don't  waste  no  time — 'orse  was  away  before  the 
end  of  the  week.  Carry  'im  well;  'e's  a  strong  rider, 
too,  and  a  good  plucked  one,  but  bad  'ands,  I  should 
say." 

"Yes,  Pettance;  I  must  go  in  now.  Will  you  tell 
Annie  I  shall  be  round  to-morrow,  to  see  her?" 

"Very  good,  miss.  'Ounds  meets  at  Filly  Cross, 
seven-thirty.    You'll  be  goin'  out  ?  " 

"Rather.     Good-night." 

Flying  back  across  the  yard,  Gyp  thought:  "'She 
rode  beautiful !'  How  jolly !  I'm  glad  he's  got  my 
horse." 


XXI 

Still  glowing  from  her  morning  in  the  saddle, 
Gyp  started  out  next  day  at  noon  on  her  visit  to 
the  "old  scoundrel's "  cottage.  It  was  one  of  those 
lingering  mellow  mornings  of  late  September,  when 
the  air,  just  warmed  through,  lifts  off  the  stubbles, 
and  the  hedgerows  are  not  yet  dried  of  dew.  The 
short  cut  led  across  two  fields,  a  narrow  strip  of  vil- 
lage common,  where  linen  was  drying  on  gorse  bushes 
corning  into  bloom,  and  one  field  beyond;  she  met 
no  one.  Crossing  the  road,  she  passed  into  the  cot- 
tage-garden, where  sunflowers  and  Michaelmas  dai- 
sies in  great  profusion  were  tangled  along  the  low 
red-brick  garden-walls,  under  some  poplar  trees  yel- 
low-flecked already.  A  single  empty  chair,  with  a 
book  turned  face  downward,  stood  outside  an  open 
window.  Smoke  wreathing  from  one  chimney  was 
the  only  sign  of  life.  But,  standing  undecided  be- 
fore the  half-open  door,  Gyp  was  conscious,  as  it 
were,  of  too  much  stillness,  of  something  unnatural 
about  the  silence.  She  was  just  raising  her  hand 
to  knock  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  smothered 
sobbing.  Peeping  through  the  window,  she  could 
just  see  a  woman  dressed  in  green,  evidently  Mrs. 
Wagge,  seated  at  a  table,  crying  into  her  handker- 
chief. At  that  very  moment,  too,  a  low  moaning 
came  from  the  room  above.  Gyp  recoiled;  then, 
making  up  her  mind,  she  went  in  and  knocked  at 

264 


BEYOND  265 

the  room  where  the  woman  in  green  was  sitting. 
After  fully  half  a  minute,  it  was  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Wagge  stood  there.  The  nose  and  eyes  and  cheeks 
of  that  thinnish,  acid  face  were  red,  and  in  her 
green  dress,  and  with  her  greenish  hair  (for  it  was 
going  grey  and  she  put  on  it  a  yellow  lotion  smelling 
of  cantharides),  she  seemed  to  Gyp  just  like  one  of 
those  green  apples  that  turn  reddish  so  unnaturally 
in  the  sun.  She  had  rubbed  over  her  face,  which 
shone  in  streaks,  and  her  handkerchief  was  still 
crumpled  in  her  hand.  It  was  horrible  to  come,  so 
fresh  and  glowing,  into  the  presence  of  this  poor 
woman,  evidently  in  bitter  sorrow.  And  a  desperate 
desire  came  over  Gyp  to  fly.  It  seemed  dreadful  for 
anyone  connected  with  him  who  had  caused  this 
trouble  to  be  coming  here  at  all.  But  she  said  as 
softly  as  she  could : 

"Mrs.  Wagge?  Please  forgive  me — but  is  there 
any  news?  I  am —  It  was  I  who  got  Daphne 
down  here." 

The  woman  before  her  was  evidently  being  torn 
this  way  and  that,  but  at  last  she  answered,  with  a 
sniff: 

"It — it — was  born  this  morning — dead." 

Gyp  gasped.  To  have  gone  through  it  all  for 
that!  Every  bit  of  mother-feeling  in  her  rebelled 
and  sorrowed;  but  her  reason  said:  Better  so !  Much 
better!    And  she  murmured: 

"How  is  she?" 

Mrs.  Wagge  answered,  with  profound  dejection: 
:Bad — very  bad.     I  don't  know  I'm  sure  what 


u  ■ 


266  BEYOND 

to  say — my  feelings  are  all  anyhow,  and  that's  the 
truth.     It's  so  dreadfully  upsetting  altogether." 

"Is  my  nurse  with  her?" 

"Yes;  she's  there.  She's  a  very  headstrong 
woman,  but  capable,  I  don't  deny.  Daisy's  very 
weak.  Oh,  it  is  upsetting!  And  now  I  suppose 
there'll  have  to  be  a  burial.  There  really  seems  no 
end  to  it.  And  all  because  of — of  that  man."  And 
Mrs.  Wagge  turned  away  again  to  cry  into  her 
handkerchief. 

Feeling  she  could  never  say  or  do  the  right  thing 
to  the  poor  lady,  Gyp  stole  out.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs,  she  hesitated  whether  to  go  up  or  no.  At 
last,  she  mounted  softly.  It  must  be  in  the  front 
room  that  the  bereaved  girl  was  lying — the  girl  who, 
but  a  year  ago,  had  debated  with  such  naive  self- 
importance  whether  or  not  it  was  her  duty  to  take 
a  lover.  Gyp  summoned  courage  to  tap  gently. 
The  economic  agent  opened  the  door  an  inch,  but, 
seeing  who  it  was,  slipped  her  robust  and  handsome 
person  through  into  the  corridor. 

"You,  my  dear !"  she  said  in  a  whisper.  "That's 
nice ! " 

"How  is  she?" 

"  Fairly  well — considering.    You  know  about  it  ?  " 

"Yes;  can  I  see  her?" 

"I  hardly  think  so.  I  can't  make  her  out.  She's 
got  no  spirit,  not  an  ounce.  She  doesn't  want  to 
get  well,  I  believe.  It's  the  man,  I  expect."  And, 
looking  at  Gyp  with  her  fine  blue  eyes,  she  asked: 
"Is  that  it?    Is  he  tired  of  her?" 


BEYOND  267 

Gyp  met  her  gaze  better  than  she  had  believed 
possible. 

"Yes,  nurse." 

The  economic  agent  swept  her  up  and  down. 

"It's  a  pleasure  to  look  at  you.  You've  got  quite 
a  colour,  for  you.  After  all,  I  believe  it  might  do 
her  good  to  see  you.    Come  in!" 

Gyp  passed  in  behind  her,  and  stood  gazing,  not 
daring  to  step  forward.  What  a  white  face,  with 
eyes  closed,  with  fair  hair  still  damp  on  the  fore- 
head, with  one  white  hand  lying  on  the  sheet  above 
her  heart!  What  a  frail  madonna  of  the  sugar- 
plums! On  the  whole  of  that  bed  the  only  colour 
seemed  the  gold  hoop  round  the  wedding-finger. 

The  economic  agent  said  very  quietly: 

"Look,  my  dear;  I've  brought  you  a  nice  visitor." 

Daphne  Wing's  eyes  and  lips  opened  and  closed 
again.  And  the  awful  thought  went  through  Gyp: 
'  Poor  thing !  She  thought  it  was  going  to  be  him, 
and  it's  only  me !'    Then  the  white  lips  said: 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  it's  you — it  is  kind  of  you!" 
And  the  eyes  opened  again,  but  very  little,  and  dif- 
ferently. 

The  economic  agent  slipped  away.  Gyp  sat  down 
by  the  bed  and  timidly  touched  the  hand. 

Daphne  Wing  looked  at  her,  and  two  tears  slowly 
ran  down  her  cheeks. 

"It's  over,"  she  said  just  audibly,  "and  there's 
nothing  now — it  was  dead,  you  know.  I  don't  want 
to  live.  Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  why  can't  they  let  me 
die,  too?" 


268  BEYOND 

Gyp  bent  over  and  kissed  the  hand,  unable  to 
bear  the  sight  of  those  two  slowly  rolling  tears. 
Daphne  Wing  went  on: 

"You  are  good  to  me.  I  wish  my  poor  little  baby 
hadn't " 

Gyp,  knowing  her  own  tears  were  wetting  that 
hand,  raised  herself  and  managed  to  get  out  the 
words : 

"Bear  up  !    Think  of  your  work !" 

"  Dancing !  Ho ! "  She  gave  the  least  laugh  ever 
heard.     "It  seems  so  long  ago." 

"Yes;  but  now  it'll  all  come  back  to  you  again, 
better  than  ever." 

Daphne  Wing  answered  by  a  feeble  sigh. 

There  was  silence.  Gyp  thought:  'She's  falling 
asleep.' 

With  eyes  and  mouth  closed  like  that,  and  all 
alabaster  white,  the  face  was  perfect,  purged  of  its 
little  commonnesses.  Strange  freak  that  this  white 
flower  of  a  face  could  ever  have  been  produced  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wagge ! 

Daphne  Wing  opened  her  eyes  and  said: 

"Oh!  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  I  feel  so  weak.  And  I  feel 
much  more  lonely  now.    There's  nothing  anywhere." 

Gyp  got  up;  she  felt  herself  being  carried  into  the 
mood  of  the  girl's  heart,  and  was  afraid  it  would  be 
seen.     Daphne  Wing  went  on: 

"Do  you  know,  when  nurse  said  she'd  brought  a 
visitor,  I  thought  it  was  him;  but  I'm  glad  now.  If 
he  had  looked  at  me  like  he  did — I  couldn't  have 
borne  it." 


BEYOND  269 

Gyp  bent  down  and  put  her  lips  to  the  damp 
forehead.  Faint,  very  faint,  there  was  still  the  scent 
of  orange-blossom. 

When  she  was  once  more  in  the  garden,  she  hur- 
ried away;  but  instead  of  crossing  the  fields  again, 
turned  past  the  side  of  the  cottage  into  the  coppice 
behind.  And,  sitting  down  on  a  log,  her  hands 
pressed  to  her  cheeks  and  her  elbows  to  her  breast, 
she  stared  at  the  sunlit  bracken  and  the  flies  chas- 
ing each  other  over  it.  Love  !  Was  it  always  some- 
thing hateful  and  tragic  that  spoiled  lives?  Criss- 
cross !  One  darting  on  another,  taking  her  almost 
before  she  knew  she  was  seized,  then  darting  away 
and  leaving  her  wanting  to  be  seized  again.  Or 
darting  on  her,  who,  when  seized,  was  fatal  to  the 
darter,  yet  had  never  wanted  to  be  seized.  Or  dart- 
ing one  on  the  other  for  a  moment,  then  both  break- 
ing away  too  soon.  Did  never  two  dart  at  each 
other,  seize,  and  cling,  and  ever  after  be  one  ?  Love ! 
It  had  spoiled  her  father's  life,  and  Daphne  Wing's; 
never  came  when  it  was  wanted;  always  came  when 
it  was  not.  Malevolent  wanderer,  alighting  here, 
there;  tiring  of  the  spirit  before  it  tired  of  the  body; 
or  of  the  body  before  it  tired  of  the  spirit.  Better 
to  have  nothing  to  do  with  it — far  better !  If  one 
never  loved,  one  would  never  feel  lonely — like  that 
poor  girl.  And  yet !  No — there  was  no  "and  yet." 
Who  that  was  free  would  -,vish  to  become  a  slave? 
A  slave — like  Daphne  Wing!  A  slave — like  her 
own  husband  to  his  want  of  a  wife  who  did  not  love 
him.     A  slave  like  her  father  had  been — still  was, 


270  BEYOND 

to  a  memory.  And  watching  the  sunlight  on  the 
bracken,  Gyp  thought:  'Love!  Keep  far  from  me. 
I  don't  want  you.     I  shall  never  want  you  ! ' 

Every  morning  that  week  she  made  her  way  to 
the  cottage,  and  every  morning  had  to  pass  through 
the  hands  of  Mrs.  Wagge.  The  good  lady  had  got 
over  the  upsetting  fact  that  Gyp  was  the  wife  of 
that  villain,  and  had  taken  a  fancy  to  her,  confiding 
to  the  economic  agent,  who  confided  it  to  Gyp,  that 
she  was  "very  distangey — and  such  pretty  eyes, 
quite  Italian."  She  was  one  of  those  numberless 
persons  whose  passion  for  distinction  was  just  a  lit- 
tle too  much  for  their  passionate  propriety.  It  was 
that  worship  of  distinction  which  had  caused  her  to 
have  her  young  daughter's  talent  for  dancing  fos- 
tered. Who  knew  to  what  it  might  lead  in  these 
days?  At  great  length  she  explained  to  Gyp  the 
infinite  care  with  which  she  had  always  "  brought 
Daisy  up  like  a  lady — and  now  this  is  the  result." 
And  she  would  look  piercingly  at  Gyp's  hair  or  ears, 
at  her  hands  or  her  instep,  to  see  how  it  was  done. 
The  burial  worried  her  dreadfully.  "I'm  using  the 
name  of  Daisy  Wing;  she  was  christened  ' Daisy' 
and  the  Wing's  professional,  so  that  takes  them  both 
in,  and  it's  quite  the  truth.  But  I  don't  think  any- 
one would  connect  it,  would  they?  About  the 
father's  name,  do  you  think  I  might  say  the  late 
Mr.  Joseph  Wing,  this  once  ?  You  see,  it  never  was 
alive,  and  I  must  put  something  if  they're  not  to 
guess  the  truth,  and  that  I  couldn't  bear;  Mr.  Wagge 


BEYOND  271 

would  be  so  distressed.  It's  in  his  own  line,  you 
see.     Oh,  it  is  upsetting ! " 

Gyp  murmured  desperately: 

"Oh!  yes,  anything." 

Though  the  girl  was  so  deathly  white  and  spirit- 
less, it  soon  became  clear  that  she  was  going  to  pull 
through.  With  each  day,  a  little  more  colour  and  a 
little  more  commonness  came  back  to  her.  And 
Gyp  felt  instinctively  that  she  would,  in  the  end, 
return  to  Fulham  purged  of  her  infatuation,  a  little 
harder,  perhaps  a  little  deeper. 

Late  one  afternoon  toward  the  end  of  her  week 
at  Mildenham,  Gyp  wandered  again  into  the  cop- 
pice, and  sat  down  on  that  same  log.  An  hour  be- 
fore sunset,  the  light  shone  level  on  the  yellowing 
leaves  all  round  her;  a  startled  rabbit  pelted  out  of 
the  bracken  and  pelted  back  again,  and,  from  the 
far  edge  of  the  little  wood,  a  jay  cackled  harshly, 
shifting  its  perch  from  tree  to  tree.  Gyp  thought  of 
her  baby,  and  of  that  which  would  have  been  its 
half-brother;  and  now  that  she  was  so  near  having 
to  go  back  to  Fiorsen,  she  knew  that  she  had  not 
been  wise  to  come  here.  To  have  been  in  contact 
with  the  girl,  to  have  touched,  as  it  were,  that 
trouble,  had  made  the  thought  of  life  with  him  less 
tolerable  even  than  it  was  before.  Only  the  longing 
to  see  her  baby  made  return  seem  possible.  Ah, 
well — she  would  get  used  to  it  all  again !  But  the 
anticipation  of  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  then  sliding 
away  from  the  meeting  with  her  eyes,  of  all — of  all 
that  would  begin  again,  suddenly  made  her  shiver. 


272  BEYOND 

She  was  very  near  to  loathing  at  that  moment.  He, 
the  father  of  her  baby !  The  thought  seemed  ridic- 
ulous and  strange.  That  little  creature  seemed  to 
bind  him  to  her  no  more  than  if  it  were  the  offspring 
of  some  chance  encounter,  some  pursuit  of  nymph 
by  faun.  No !  It  was  hers  alone.  And  a  sudden 
feverish  longing  to  get  back  to  it  overpowered  all 
other  thought.  This  longing  grew  in  her  so  all  night 
that  at  breakfast  she  told  her  father.  Swallowing 
down  whatever  his  feeling  may  have  been,  he  said: 
"Very  well,  my  child;  I'll  come  up  with  you." 
Putting  her  into  the  cab  in  London,  he  asked: 
"Have  you  still  got  your  key  of  Bury  Street? 
Good !  Remember,  Gyp — any  time  day  or  night — 
there  it  is  for  you." 

She  had  wired  to  Fiorsen  from  Mildenham  that 
she  was  coming,  and  she  reached  home  soon  after 
three.  He  was  not  in,  and  what  was  evidently  her 
telegram  lay  unopened  in  the  hall.  Tremulous  with 
expectation,  she  ran  up  to  the  nursery.  The  pa- 
thetic sound  of  some  small  creature  that  cannot  tell 
what  is  hurting  it,  or  why,  met  her  ears.  She  went 
in,  disturbed,  yet  with  the  half-triumphant  thought: 
'Perhaps  that's  for  me!' 

Betty,  very  flushed,  was  rocking  the  cradle,  and 
examining  the  baby's  face  with  a  perplexed  frown. 
Seeing  Gyp,  she  put  her  hand  to  her  side,  and 
gasped: 

"Oh,  be  joyful!  Oh,  my  dear!  I  am  glad.  I 
can't  do  anything  with  baby  since  the  morning. 
Whenever  she  wakes  up,  she  cries  like  that.    And 


BEYOND  273 

till  to-day  she's  been  a  little  model.  Hasn't  she ! 
There,  there!" 

Gyp  took  up  the  baby,  whose  black  eyes  fixed 
themselves  on  her  mother  in  a  momentary  content- 
ment; but,  at  the  first  movement,  she  began  again 
her  fretful  plaint.     Betty  went  on: 

"She's  been  like  that  ever  since  this  morning. 
Mr.  Fiorsen's  been  in  more  than  once,  ma'am,  and 
the  fact  is,  baby  don't  like  it.  He  stares  at  her  so. 
But  this  morning  I  thought — well — I  thought: 
'You're  her  father.  It's  time  she  was  getting  used 
to  you/  So  I  let  them  be  a  minute;  and  when  I 
came  back — I  was  only  just  across  to  the  bathroom 
— he  was  comin'  out  lookin'  quite  fierce  and  white, 
and  baby — oh,  screamin' !  And  except  for  sleepin', 
she's  hardly  stopped  cryin'  since." 

Pressing  the  baby  to  her  breast,  Gyp  sat  very 
still,  and  queer  thoughts  went  through  her  mind. 

"How  has  he  been,  Betty?"  she  said. 

Betty  plaited  her  apron;  her  moon-face  was 
troubled. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  think  he's  been  drinkin'. 
Oh,  I'm  sure  he  has — I've  smelt  it  about  him.  The 
third  day  it  began.  And  night  before  last  he  came 
in  dreadfully  late — I  could  hear  him  staggerin' 
about,  abusing  the  stairs  as  he  was  comin'  up.  Oh 
dear — it  is  sl  pity!" 

The  baby,  who  had  been  still  enough  since  she 
lay  in  her  mother's  lap,  suddenly  raised  her  little 
voice  again.    Gyp  said: 

"Betty,  I  believe  something  hurts  her  arm.    She 


274  BEYOND 

cries  the  moment  she's  touched  there.  Is  there  a 
pin  or  anything?  Just  see.  Take  her  things  off. 
Oh— look!" 

Both  the  tiny  arms  above  the  elbow  were  circled 
with  dark  marks,  as  if  they  had  been  squeezed  by 
ruthless  fingers.  The  two  women  looked  at  each 
other  in  horror;  and  under  her  breath  Gyp  said: 
"He!" 

She  had  flushed  crimson;  her  eyes  filled  but  dried 
again  almost  at  once.  And,  looking  at  her  face, 
now  gone  very  pale,  and  those  lips  tightened  to  a 
line,  Betty  stopped  in  her  outburst  of  ejaculation. 
When  they  had  wrapped  the  baby's  arm  in  remedies 
and  cotton-wool,  Gyp  went  into  her  bedroom,  and, 
throwing  herself  down  on  her  bed,  burst  into  a  pas- 
sion of  weeping,  smothering  it  deep  in  her  pillow. 

It  was  the  crying  of  sheer  rage.  The  brute !  Not 
to  have  control  enough  to  stop  short  of  digging  his 
claws  into  that  precious  mite!  Just  because  the 
poor  little  thing  cried  at  that  cat's  stare  of  his! 
The  brute!  The  devil!  And  he  would  come  to 
her  and  whine  about  it,  and  say:  "My  Gyp,  I 
never  meant — how  should  I  know  I  was  hurting? 
Her  crying  was  so —  Why  should  she  cry  at  me? 
I  was  upset!  I  wasn't  thinking!"  She  could  hear 
him  pleading  and  sighing  to  her  to  forgive  him. 
But  she  would  not — not  this  time!  He  had  hurt 
a  helpless  thing  once  too  often.  Her  fit  of  crying 
ceased,  and  she  lay  listening  to  the  tick  of  the  clock, 
and  marshalling  in  her  mind  a  hundred  little  evi- 
dences  of  his   malevolence   toward   her  baby — his 


BEYOND  275 

own  baby.  How  was  it  possible?  Was  he  really 
going  mad?  And  a  fit  of  such  chilly  shuddering 
seized  her  that  she  crept  under  the  eider  down  to 
regain  warmth.  In  her  rage,  she  retained  enough 
sense  of  proportion  to  understand  that  he  had  done 
this,  just  as  he  had  insulted  Monsieur  Harmost  and 
her  father — and  others — in  an  ungovernable  access 
of  nerve-irritation;  just  as,  perhaps,  one  day  he 
would  kill  someone.  But  to  understand  this  did 
not  lessen  her  feeling.  Her  baby !  Such  a  tiny 
thing !  She  hated  him  at  last;  and  she  lay  thinking 
out  the  coldest,  the  cruellest,  the  most  cutting  things 
to  say.     She  had  been  too  long-suffering. 

But  he  did  not  come  in  that  evening;  and,  too 
upset  to  eat  or  do  anything,  she  went  up  to  bed  at 
ten  o'clock.  When  she  had  undressed,  she  stole 
across  to  the  nursery;  she  had  a  longing  to  have 
the  baby  with  her — a  feeling  that  to  leave  her  was 
not  safe.  She  carried  her  off,  still  sleeping,  and, 
locking  her  doors,  got  into  bed.  Having  warmed 
a  nest  with  her  body  for  the  little  creature,  she 
laid  it  there;  and  then  for  a  long  time  lay  awake, 
expecting  every  minute  to  hear  him  return.  She 
fell  asleep  at  last,  and  woke  with  a  start.  There 
were  vague  noises  down  below  or  on  the  stairs. 
It  must  be  he!  She  had  left  the  light  on  in  her 
room,  and  she  leaned  over  to  look  at  the  baby's 
face.  It  was  still  sleeping,  drawing  its  tiny  breaths 
peacefully,  little  dog-shivers  passing  every  now  and 
then  over  its  face.  Gyp,  shaking  back  her  dark 
plaits  of  hair,  sat  up  by  its  side,  straining  her  ears. 


276  BEYOND 

Yes;  he  was  coming  up,  and,  by  the  sounds,  he 
was  not  sober.  She  heard  a  loud  creak,  and  then 
a  thud,  as  if  he  had  clutched  at  the  banisters  and 
fallen;  she  heard  muttering,  too,  and  the  noise 
of  boots  dropped.  Swiftly  the  thought  went  through 
her:  'If  he  were  quite  drunk,  he  would  not  have 
taken  them  off  at  all; — nor  if  he  were  quite  sober. 
Does  he  know  I'm  back?'  Then  came  another 
creak,  as  if  he  were  raising  himself  by  support  of 
the  banisters,  and  then — or  was  it  fancy? — she 
could  hear  him  creeping  and  breathing  behind  the 
door.  Then — no  fancy  this  time — he  fumbled  at 
the  door  and  turned  the  handle.  In  spite  of  his 
state,  he  must  know  that  she  was  back,  had  noticed 
her  travelling-coat  or  seen  the  telegram.  The 
handle  was  tried  again,  then,  after  a  pause,  the 
handle  of  the  door  between  his  room  and  hers  was 
fiercely  shaken.  She  could  hear  his  voice,  too,  as 
she  knew  it  when  he  was  flown  with  drink,  thick,  a 
little  drawling. 

"Gyp— let  me  in— Gyp  !" 

The  blood  burned  up  in  her  cheeks,  and  she 
thought:    'No,  my  friend;    you're  not  coming  in!' 

After  that,  sounds  were  more  confused,  as  if  he 
were  now  at  one  door,  now  at  the  other;  then  creak- 
ings,  as  if  on  the  stairs  again,  and  after  that,  no 
sound  at  all. 

For  fully  hah  an  hour,  Gyp  continued  to  sit  up, 
straining  her  ears.  Where  was  he?  What  doing? 
On  her  over-excited  nerves,  all  sorts  of  possibilities 
came   crowding.     He   must   have  gone  downstairs 


BEYOND  277 

again.  In  that  half-drunken  state,  where  would 
his  baffled  frenzies  lead  him?  And,  suddenly,  she 
thought  that  she  smelled  burning.  It  went,  and 
came  again;  she  got  up,  crept  to  the  door,  noise- 
lessly turned  the  key,  and,  pulling  it  open  a  few 
inches,  sniffed. 

All  was  dark  on  the  landing.  There  was  no  smell 
of  burning  out  there.  Suddenly,  a  hand  clutched 
her  ankle.  All  the  blood  rushed  from  her  heart; 
she  stifled  a  scream,  and  tried  to  pull  the  door  to. 
But  his  arm  and  her  leg  were  caught  between,  and 
she  saw  the  black  mass  of  his  figure  lying  full-length 
on  its  face.  Like  a  vice,  his  hand  held  her;  he 
drew  himself  up  on  to  his  knees,  on  to  his  feet,  and 
forced  his  way  through.  Panting,  but  in  utter  si- 
lence, Gyp  struggled  to  drive  him  out.  His  drunken 
strength  seemed  to  come  and  go  in  gusts,  but  hers 
was  continuous,  greater  than  she  had  ever  thought 
she  had,  and  she  panted: 

"Go!  go  out  of  my  room — you — you — wretch!" 
Then  her  heart  stood  still  with  horror,  for  he  had 
slued  round  to  the  bed  and  was  stretching  his  hands 
out  above  the  baby.    She  heard  him  mutter: 
"Ah-h-h! — you — in  my  place — you  I" 
Gyp  flung  herself  on  him  from  behind,  dragging 
his  arms  down,  and,  clasping  her  hands  together, 
held  him  fast.    He  twisted  round  in  her  arms  and 
sat  down  on  the  bed.    In  that  moment  of  his  col- 
lapse,  Gyp   snatched  up  her  baby  and  fled  out, 
down  the  dark  stairs,  hearing  him  stumbling,  grop- 
ing in  pursuit.     She  fled  into  the  dining-room  and 


278  BEYOND 

locked  the  door.  She  heard  him  run  against  it 
and  fall  down.  Snuggling  her  baby,  who  was  cry- 
ing now,  inside  her  nightgown,  next  to  her  skin 
for  warmth,  she  stood  rocking  and  hushing  it,  try- 
ing to  listen.  There  was  no  more  sound.  By  the 
hearth,  whence  a  little  heat  still  came  forth  from 
the  ashes,  she  cowered  down.  With  cushions  and 
the  thick  white  felt  from  the  dining-table,  she  made 
the  baby  snug,  and  wrapping  her  shivering  self  in 
the  table-cloth,  sat  staring  wide-eyed  before  her — 
and  always  listening.  There  were  sounds  at  first, 
then  none.  A  long,  long  time  she  stayed  like  that, 
before  she  stole  to  the  door.  She  did  not  mean  to 
make  a  second  mistake.  She  could  hear  the  sound 
of  heavy  breathing.  And  she  listened  to  it,  till 
she  was  quite  certain  that  it  was  really  the  breath- 
ing of  sleep.  Then  stealthily  she  opened,  and  looked. 
He  was  over  there,  lying  against  the  bottom  chair, 
in  a  heavy,  drunken  slumber.  She  knew  that  sleep 
so  well;    he  would  not  wake  from  it. 

It  gave  her  a  sort  of  evil  pleasure  that  they  would 
find  him  like  that  in  the  morning  when  she  was 
gone.  She  went  back  to  her  baby  and,  with  in- 
finite precaution,  lifted  it,  still  sleeping,  cushion 
and  all,  and  stole  past  him  up  the  stairs  that,  under 
her  bare  feet,  made  no  sound.  Once  more  in  her 
locked  room,  she  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.  It  was  just  before  dawn;  her  garden  was 
grey  and  ghostly,  and  she  thought:  'The  last  time 
I  shall  see  you.    Good-bye ! ' 

Then,  with  the  utmost  speed,  she  did  her  hair 


BEYOND  279 

and  dressed.  She  was  very  cold  and  shivery,  and 
put  on  her  fur  coat  and  cap.  She  hunted  out  two 
jerseys  for  the  baby,  and  a  certain  old  camel's- 
hair  shawl.  She  took  a  few  little  things  she  was 
fondest  of  and  slipped  them  into  her  wrist-bag  with 
her  purse,  put  on  her  hat  and  a  pair  of  gloves.  She 
did  everything  very  swiftly,  wondering,  all  the 
time,  at  her  own  power  of  knowing  what  to  take. 
When  she  was  quite  ready,  she  scribbled  a  note 
to  Betty  to  follow  with  the  dogs  to  Bury  Street, 
and  pushed  it  under  the  nursery  door.  Then,  wrap- 
ping the  baby  in  the  jerseys  and  shawl,  she  went 
downstairs.  The  dawn  had  broken,  and,  from  the 
long  narrow  window  above  the  door  with  spikes 
of  iron  across  it,  grey  light  was  striking  into  the 
hall.  Gyp  passed  Fiorsen's  sleeping  figure  safely, 
and,  for  one  moment,  stopped  for  breath.  He 
was  lying  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  his  head 
in  the  hollow  of  an  arm  raised  against  a  stair,  and 
his  face  turned  a  little  upward.  That  face  which, 
hundreds  of  times,  had  been  so  close  to  her  own,  and 
something  about  this  crumpled  body,  about  his 
tumbled  hair,  those  cheek-bones,  and  the  hollows 
beneath  the  pale  lips  just  parted  under  the  dirt- 
gold  of  his  moustache — something  of  lost  divinity 
in  all  that  inert  figure — clutched  for  a  second  at 
Gyp's  heart.  Only  for  a  second.  It  was  over,  this 
time!  No  more — never  again!  And,  turning  very 
stealthily,  she  slipped  her  shoes  on,  undid  the  chain, 
opened  the  front  door,  took  up  her  burden,  closed 
the  door  softly  behind  her,  and  walked  away. 


PART  III 


Gyp  was  going  up  to  town.  She  sat  in  the  corner 
of  a  first-class  carriage,  alone.  Her  father  had 
gone  up  by  an  earlier  train,  for  the  annual  June 
dinner  of  his  old  regiment,  and  she  had  stayed  to 
consult  the  doctor  concerning  "little  Gyp,"  aged 
nearly  nineteen  months,  to  whom  teeth  were  mak- 
ing life  a  burden. 

Her  eyes  wandered  from  window  to  window, 
obeying  the  faint  excitement  within  her.  All  the 
winter  and  spring,  she  had  been  at  Mildenham, 
very  quiet,  riding  much,  and  pursuing  her  music 
as  best  she  could,  seeing  hardly  anyone  except  her 
father;  and  this  departure  for  a  spell  of  London 
brought  her  the  feeling  that  comes  on  an  April 
day,  when  the  sky  is  blue,  with  snow-white  clouds, 
when  in  the  fields  the  lambs  are  leaping,  and  the 
grass  is  warm  for  the  first  time,  so  that  one  would 
like  to  roll  in  it.  At  Widrington,  a  porter  entered, 
carrying  a  kit-bag,  an  overcoat,  and  some  golf- 
clubs;  and  round  the  door  a  little  group,  such  as 
may  be  seen  at  any  English  wayside  station,  clus- 
tered, filling  the  air  with  their  clean,  slightly  drawl- 
ing voices.  Gyp  noted  a  tall  woman  whose  blonde 
hair  was  going  grey,  a  young  girl  with  a  fox-terrier 
on  a  lead,  a  young  man  with  a  Scotch  terrier  under 


284  BEYOND 

his  arm  and  his  back  to  the  carriage.  The  girl  was 
kissing  the  Scotch  terrier's  head. 

"Good-bye,  old  Ossy!  Was  he  nice!  Tumbo, 
keep  down  I    You're  not  going ! " 

"Good-bye,  dear  boy!    Don't  work  too  hard!" 

The  young  man's  answer  was  not  audible,  but 
it  was  followed  by  irrepressible  gurgles  and  a 
smothered: 

"Oh,  Bryan,  you  are —  Good-bye,  dear  Ossy!" 
"  Good-bye ! "  "  Good-bye ! "  The  young  man  who 
had  got  in,  made  another  unintelligible  joke  in  a 
rather  high-pitched  voice,  which  was  somehow 
familiar,  and  again  the  gurgles  broke  forth.  Then 
the  train  moved.  Gyp  caught  a  side  view  of  him, 
waving  his  hat  from  the  carriage  window.  It  was 
her  acquaintance  of  the  hunting-field — the  "Mr. 
Bryn  Summer'ay,"  as  old  Pettance  called  him,  who 
had  bought  her  horse  last  year.  Seeing  him  pull 
down  his  overcoat,  to  bank  up  the  old  Scotch  ter- 
rier against  the  jolting  of  the  journey,  she  thought: 
'I  like  men  who  think  first  of  their  dogs.'  His 
round  head,  with  curly  hair,  broad  brow,  and  those 
clean-cut  lips,  gave  her  again  the  wonder:  'Where 
have  I  seen  someone  like  him?'  He  raised  the  win- 
dow, and  turned  round. 

"How  would  you  like —  Oh,  how  d'you  do! 
We  met  out  hunting.  You  don't  remember  me,  I 
expect." 

"Yes;  perfectly.  And  you  bought  my  horse  last 
summer.    How  is  he?" 

"In  great  form.    I  forgot  to  ask  what  you  called 


BEYOND  285 

him;  I've  named  him  Hotspur — he'll  never  be 
steady  at  his  fences.  I  remember  how  he  pulled 
with  you  that  day." 

They  were  silent,  smiling,  as  people  will  in  re- 
membrance of  a  good  run. 

Then,  looking  at  the  dog,  Gyp  said  softly: 

"He  looks  rather  a  darling.    How  old?" 

"Twelve.    Beastly  when  dogs  get  old!" 

There  was  another  little  silence  while  he  con- 
templated her  steadily  with  his  clear  eyes. 

"I  came  over  to  call  once — with  my  mother; 
November  the  year  before  last.    Somebody  was  ill." 

"Yes— I." 

"Badly?" 

Gyp  shook  her  head. 

"I  heard  you  were  married — "  The  little  drawl 
in  his  voice  had  increased,  as  though  covering  the 
abruptness  of  that  remark.    Gyp  looked  up. 

"Yes;  but  my  little  daughter  and  I  live  with 
my  father  again."  What  "came  over"  her — as 
they  say — to  be  so  frank,  she  could  not  have  told. 

He  said  simply: 

"Ah!  I've  often  thought  it  queer  I've  never 
seen  you  since.    What  a  run  that  was ! " 

"Perfect!  Was  that  your  mother  on  the  plat- 
form?" 

"Yes — and  my  sister  Edith.  Extraordinary  dead- 
alive  place,  Widrington;  I  expect  Mildenham  isn't 
much  better?" 

"It's  very  quiet,  but  I  like  it." 

"By  the  way,  I  don't  know  your  name  now?" 


286  BEYOND 

"Fiorsen." 

"Oh,  yes!  The  violinist.  Life's  a  bit  of  a  gam- 
ble, isn't  it?" 

Gyp  did  not  answer  that  odd  remark,  did  not 
quite  know  what  to  make  of  this  audacious  young 
man,  whose  hazel  eyes  and  lazy  smile  were  queerly 
lovable,  but  whose  face  in  repose  had  such  a  broad 
gravity.  He  took  from  his  pocket  a  little  red 
book. 

"Do  you  know  these?  I  always,  take  them 
travelling.  Finest  things  ever  written,  aren't 
they?" 

The  book — Shakespeare's  Sonnets — was  open  at 
that  which  begins : 

"Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove " 


Gyp  read  on  as  far  as  the  lines: 

"Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come. 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom " 

and  looked  out  of  the  window.  The  train  was 
passing  through  a  country  of  fields  and  dykes,  where 
the  sun,  far  down  in  the  west,  shone  almost  level 
over  wide,  whitish-green  space,  and  the  spotted 
cattle  browsed  or  stood  by  the  ditches,  lazily  flick- 
ing their  tufted  tails.     A  shaft  of  sunlight  flowed 


BEYOND  287 

into  the  carriage,  filled  with  dust  motes;  and,  hand- 
ing the  little  book  back  through  that  streak  of 
radiance,  she  said  softly: 

"Yes;  that's  wonderful.  Do  you  read  much 
poetry?" 

"More  law,  I'm  afraid.  But  it  is  about  the  finest 
thing  in  the  world,  isn't  it?" 

"No;   I  think  music." 

"Are  you  a  musician?" 

"Only  a  little." 

"You  look  as  if  you  might  be." 

"What?    A  little?" 

"No;   I  should  think  you  had  it  badly." 

"Thank  you.    And  you  haven't  it  at  all?" 

"I  like  opera." 

"The  hybrid  form — and  the  lowest!" 

"That's  why  it  suits  me.  Don't  you  like  it, 
though?" 

"Yes;   that's  why  I'm  going  up  to  London." 

"Really?    Are  you  a  subscriber?" 

"This  season." 

"So  am  I.    Jolly — I  shall  see  you." 

Gyp  smiled.  It  was  so  long  since  she  had  talked 
to  a  man  of  her  own  age,  so  long  since  she  had  seen 
a  face  that  roused  her  curiosity  and  admiration,  so 
long  since  she  had  been  admired.  The  sun-shaft, 
shifted  by  a  westward  trend  of  the  train,  bathed 
her  from  the  knees  up;  and  its  warmth  increased 
her  light-hearted  sense  of  being  in  luck — above  her 
fate,  instead  of  under  it. 

Astounding  how  much  can  be  talked  of  in  two 


288  BEYOND 

or  three  hours  of  a  railway  journey!  And  what  a 
friendly  after-warmth  clings  round  those  hours! 
Does  the  difficulty  of  making  oneself  heard  pro- 
voke confidential  utterance?  Or  is  it  the  isolation 
or  the  continual  vibration  that  carries  friendship 
faster  and  further  than  will  a  spasmodic  acquain- 
tanceship of  weeks?  But  in  that  long  talk  he 
was  far  the  more  voluble.  There  was,  too,  much 
of  which  she  could  not  speak.  -Besides,  she  liked 
to  listen.  His  slightly  drawling  voice  fascinated 
her — his  audacious,  often  witty  way  of  putting 
things,  and  the  irrepressible  bubble  of  laughter 
that  would  keep  breaking  from  him.  He  disclosed 
his  past,  such  as  it  was,  freely — public-school  and 
college  life,  efforts  at  the  bar,  ambitions,  tastes, 
even  his  scrapes.  And  in  this  spontaneous  un- 
folding there  was  perpetual  flattery;  Gyp  felt 
through  it  all,  as  pretty  women  will,  a  sort  of  subtle 
admiration.  Presently  he  asked  her  if  she  played 
piquet. 

"Yes;  I  play  with  my  father  nearly  every  eve- 
ning." 

"Shall  we  have  a  game,  then?" 

She  knew  he  only  wanted  to  play  because  he  could 
sit  nearer,  joined  by  the  evening  paper  over  their 
knees,  hand  her  the  cards  after  dealing,  touch  her 
hand  by  accident,  look  in  her  face.  And  this  was 
not  unpleasant;  for  she,  in  turn,  liked  looking  at 
his  face,  which  had  what  is  called  "charm" — that 
something  light  and  unepiscopal,  entirely  lacking 
to  so  many  solid,  handsome,  admirable  faces. 


BEYOND  289 

But  even  railway  journeys  come  to  an  end;  and 
when  he  gripped  her  hand  to  say  good-bye,  she  gave 
his  an  involuntary  little  squeeze.  Standing  at  her 
cab  window,  with  his  hat  raised,  the  old  dog  under 
his  arm,  and  a  look  of  frank,  rather  wistful,  admira- 
tion on  his  face,  he  said: 

"I  shall  see  you  at  the  opera,  then,  and  in  the 
Row  perhaps;  and  I  may  come  along  to  Bury 
Street,  some  time,  mayn't  I?" 

Nodding  to  those  friendly  words,  Gyp  drove  off 
through  the  sultry  London  evening.  Her  father 
was  not  back  from  the  dinner,  and  she  went  straight 
to  her  room.  After  so  long  in  the  country,  it  seemed 
very  close  in  Bury  Street;  she  put  on  a  wrapper 
and  sat  down  to  brush  the  train-smoke  out  of  her 
hair. 

For  months  after  leaving  Fiorsen,  she  had  felt 
nothing  but  relief.  Only  of  late  had  she  begun  to 
see  her  new  position,  as  it  was — that  of  a  woman 
married  yet  not  married,  whose  awakened  senses 
have  never  been  gratified,  whose  spirit  is  still  wait- 
ing for  unfoldment  in  love,  who,  however  disil- 
lusioned, is — even  if  in  secret  from  herself — more 
andjmore  surely  seeking  a  real  mate,  with  every 
hour  that  ripens  her  heart  and  beauty.  To-night — 
gazing  at  her  face,  reflected,  intent  and  mournful, 
in  the  mirror — she  saw  that  position  more  clearly, 
in  all  its  aridity,  than  she  had  ever  seen  it.  What 
was  the  use  of  being  pretty  ?  No  longer  use  to  any- 
one !  Not  yet  twenty-six,  and  in  a  nunnery !  With 
a  shiver,  but  not  of  cold,  she  drew  her  wrapper  close. 


290  BEYOND 

This  time  last  year  she  had  at  least  been  in  the 
main  current  of  life,  not  a  mere  derelict.  And 
yet — better  far  be  like  this  than  go  back  to  him 
whom  memory  painted  always  standing  over  her 
sleeping  baby,  with  his  arms  stretched  out  and 
his  fingers  crooked  like  claws. 

After  that  early-morning  escape,  Fiorsen  had 
lurked  after  her  for  weeks,  in  town,  at  Mildenham, 
followed  them  even  to  Scotland,  where  Winton  had 
carried  her  off.  But  she  had  not  weakened  in  her 
resolution  a  second  time,  and  suddenly  he  had  given 
up  pursuit,  and  gone  abroad.  Since  then — nothing 
had  come  from  him,  save  a  few  wild  or  maudlin  let- 
ters, written  evidently  during  drinking-bouts.  Even 
they  had  ceased,  and  for  four  months  she  had  heard 
no  word.  He  had  "got  over"  her,  it  seemed,  wher- 
ever he  was — Russia,  Sweden — who  knew — who 
cared  ? 

She  let  the  brush  rest  on  her  knee,  thinking  again 
of  that  walk  with  her  baby  through  empty,  silent 
streets,  in  the  early  misty  morning  last  October,  of 
waiting  dead-tired  outside  here,  on  the  pavement, 
ringing  till  they  let  her  in.  Often,  since,  she  had 
wondered  how  fear  could  have  worked  her  up  to 
that  weird  departure.  She  only  knew  that  it  had 
not  been  unnatural  at  the  time.  Her  father  and 
Aunt  Rosamund  had  wanted  her  to  try  for  a  divorce, 
and  no  doubt  they  had  been  right.  But  her  in- 
stincts had  refused,  still  refused  to  let  everyone 
know  her  secrets  and  sufferings — still  refused  the 
hollow  pretence  involved,  that  she  had  loved  him 


BEYOND  291 

when  she  never  had.  No,  it  had  been  her  fault  for 
marrying  him  without  love 

"  Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds !  " 

What  irony — giving  her  that  to  read — if  her  fellow 
traveller  had  only  known ! 

She  got  up  from  before  the  mirror,  and  stood 
looking  round  her  room,  the  room  she  had  always 
slept  in  as  a  girl.  So  he  had  remembered  her  all 
this  time !  It  had  not  seemed  like  meeting  a 
stranger.  They  were  not  strangers  now,  anyway. 
And,  suddenly,  on  the  wall  before  her,  she  saw  his 
face;  or,  if  not,  what  was  so  like  that  she  gave  a  little 
gasp.  Of  course!  How  stupid  of  her  not  to  have 
known  at  once!  There,  in  a  brown  frame,  hung  a 
photograph  of  the  celebrated  Botticelli  or  Masaccio 
"Head  of  a  Young  Man"  in  the  National  Gallery. 
She  had  fallen  in  love  with  it  years  ago,  and  on  the 
wall  of  her  room  it  had  been  ever  since.  That 
broad  face,  the  clear  eyes,  the  bold,  clean-cut 
mouth,  the  audacity — only,  the  live  face  was  Eng- 
lish, not  Italian,  had  more  humour,  more  "breed- 
ing," less  poetry — something  "old  Georgian"  about 
it.  How  he  would  laugh  if  she  told  him  he  was 
like  that  'peasant  ^acolyte  with  nurTed-out  hair,  and 
a  little  niching  round  his  neck !  And,  smiling,  Gyp 
plaited  her  own  hair  and  got  into  bed. 

But  she  could  not  sleep;  she  heard  her  father  come 
in  and  go  up  to  his  room,  heard  the  clocks  strike 
midnight,  and  one,  and  two,  and  always  the  dull 


292  BEYOND 

roar  of  Piccadilly.  She  had  nothing  over  her  but 
a  sheet,  and  still  it  was  too  hot.  There  was  a  scent 
in  the  room,  as  of  honeysuckle.  Where  could  it 
come  from?  She  got  up  at  last,  and  went  to  the 
window.  There,  on  the  window-sill,  behind  the 
curtains,  was  a  bowl  of  jessamine.  Her  father  must 
have  brought  it  up  for  her — just  like  him  to  think  of 
that! 

And,  burying  her  nose  in  those  white  blossoms, 
she  was  visited  by  a  memory  of  her  first  ball — that 
evening  of  such  delight  and  disillusionment.  Per- 
haps Bryan  Summerhay  had  been  there — all  that 
time  ago !  If  he  had  been  introduced  to  her  then, 
if  she  had  happened  to  dance  with  him  instead  of 
with  that  man  who  had  kissed  her  arm,  might  she 
not  have  felt  different  toward  all  men?  And  if  he 
had  admired  her — and  had  not  everyone,  that  night 
— might  she  not  have  liked,  perhaps  more  than  liked, 
him  in  return?  Or  would  she  have  looked  on  him 
as  on  all  her  swains  before  she  met  Fiorsen,  so  many 
moths  fluttering  round  a  candle,  foolish  to  singe 
themselves,  not  to  be  taken  seriously  ?  Perhaps  she 
had  been  bound  to  have  her  lesson,  to  be  humbled 
and  brought  low ! 

Taking  a  sprig  of  jessamine  and  holding  it  to  her 
nose,  she  went  up  to  that  picture.  In  the  dim  light, 
she  could  just  see  the  outline  of  the  face  and  the 
eyes  gazing  at  her.  The  scent  of  the  blossom  pene- 
trated her  nerves;  in  her  heart,  something  faintly 
stirred,  as  a  leaf  turns  over,  as  a  wing  nutters.  And, 
blossom  and  all,   she  clasped  her  hands  over  her 


BEYOND  293 

breast,  where  again  her  heart  quivered  with  that 
faint,  shy  tremor. 

It  was  late,  no — early,  when  she  fell  asleep  and 
had  a  strange  dream.  She  was  riding  her  old  mare 
through  a  field  of  flowers.  She  had  on  a  black  dress, 
and  round  her  head  a  crown  of  bright,  pointed  crys- 
tals; she  sat  without  saddle,  her  knee  curled  up, 
perched  so  lightly  that  she  hardly  felt  the  mare's 
back,  and  the  reins  she  held  were  long  twisted  stems 
of  honeysuckle.  Singing  as  she  rode,  her  eyes  flying 
here  and  there,  over  the  field,  up  to  the  sky,  she  felt 
happier,  lighter  than  thistledown.  While  they  raced 
along,  the  old  mare  kept  turning  her  head  and  bit- 
ing at  the  honeysuckle  flowers;  and  suddenly  that 
chestnut  face  became  the  face  of  Summerhay,  look- 
ing back  at  her  with  his  smile.  She  awoke.  Sun- 
light, through  the  curtains  where  she  had  opened 
them  to  find  the  flowers,  was  shining  on  her. 


II 

Very  late  that  same  night,  Summerhay  came  out 
of  the  little  Chelsea  house,  which  he  inhabited,  and 
walked  toward  the  river.  In  certain  moods  men 
turn  insensibly  toward  any  space  where  nature  rules 
a  little — downs,  woods,  waters — where  the  sky  is 
free  to  the  eye  and  one  feels  the  broad  comradeship 
of  primitive  forces.  A  man  is  alone  when  he  loves, 
alone  when  he  dies;  nobody  cares  for  one  so  absorbed, 
and  he  cares  for  nobody,  no — not  he !  Summerhay 
stood  by  the  river-wall  and  looked  up  at  the  stars 
through  the  plane-tree  branches.  Every  now  and 
then  he  drew  a  long  breath  of  the  warm,  unstirring 
air,  and  smiled,  without  knowing  that  he  smiled. 
And  he  thought  of  little,  of  nothing;  but  a  sweetish 
sensation  beset  his  heart,  a  kind  of  quivering  light- 
ness his  limbs.  He  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  shut 
his  eyes.  He  saw  a  face — only  a  face.  The  lights 
went  out  one  by  one  in  the  houses  opposite;  no  cabs 
passed  now,  and  scarce  a  passenger  was  afoot,  but 
Summerhay  sat  like  a  man  in  a  trance,  the  smile 
coming  and  going  on  his  lips;  and  behind  him  the 
air  that  ever  stirs  above  the  river  faintly  moved 
with  the  tide  flowing  up. 

It  was  nearly  three,  just  coming  dawn,  when  he 
went  in,  and,  instead  of  going  to  bed,  sat  down  to  a 
case  in  which  he  was  junior  on  the  morrow,  and 
worked  right  on  till  it  was  time  to  ride  before  his 

294 


BEYOND  295 

bath  and  breakfast.  He  had  one  of  those  constitu- 
tions, nOt  uncommon  among  barristers — fostered 
perhaps  by  ozone  in  the  Courts  of  Law — that  can 
do  this  sort  of  thing  and  take  no  harm.  Indeed,  he 
worked  best  in  such  long  spurts  of  vigorous  concen- 
tration. With  real  capacity  and  a  liking  for  his 
work,  this  young  man  was  certainly  on  his  way  to 
make  a  name;  though,  in  the  intervals  of  energy,  no 
one  gave  a  more  complete  impression  of  imperturb- 
able drifting  on  the  tides  of  the  moment.  Alto- 
gether, he  was  rather  a  paradox.  He  chose  to  live 
in  that  little  Chelsea  house  which  had  a  scrap  of 
garden  rather  than  in  the  Temple  or  St.  James's, 
because  he  often  preferred  solitude;  and  yet  he  was 
an  excellent  companion,  with  many  friends,  who 
felt  for  him  the  affectionate  distrust  inspired  by 
those  who  are  prone  to  fits  and  starts  of  work  and 
play,  conviviality  and  loneliness.  To  women,  he 
was  almost  universally  attractive.  But  if  he  had 
scorched  his  wings  a  little  once  or  twice,  he  had  kept 
heart-free  on  the  whole.  He  was,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, a  bit  of  a  gambler,  the  sort  of  gambler  who 
gets  in  deep,  and  then,  by  a  plucky,  lucky  plunge, 
gets  out  again,  until  some  day  perhaps — he  stays 
there.  His  father,  a  diplomatist,  had  been  dead 
fifteen  years;  his  mother  was  well  known  in  the  semi- 
intellectual  circles  of  society.  He  had  no  brothers, 
two  sisters,  and  an  income  of  his  own.  Such  was 
Bryan  Summerhay  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  his 
wisdom-teeth  to  cut,  his  depths  unplumbed. 

When  he  started  that  morning  for  the  Temple, 


296  BEYOND 

he  had  still  a  feeling  of  extraordinary  lightness  in 
his  limbs,  and  he  still  saw  that  face — its  perfect 
regularity,  its  warm  pallor,  and  dark  smiling  eyes 
rather  wide  apart,  its  fine,  small,  close-set  ears,  and 
the  sweep  of  the  black-brown  hair  across  the  low 
brow.  Or  was  it  something  much  less  definite  he 
saw — an  emanation  or  expression,  a  trick,  a  turn, 
an  indwelling  grace,  a  something  that  appealed,  that 
turned,  and  touched  him?  Whatever  it  was,  it 
would  not  let  him  be,  and  he  did  not  desire  that  it 
should.  For  this  was  in  his  character;  if  he  saw  a 
horse  that  he  liked,  he  put  his  money  on  whatever 
it  ran;  if  charmed  by  an  opera,  he  went  over  and 
over  again;  if  by  a  poem,  he  almost  learned  it  by 
heart.  And  while  he  walked  along  the  river — his 
usual  route — he  had  queer  and  unaccustomed  sen- 
sations, now  melting,  now  pugnacious.  And  he  felt 
happy. 

He  was  rather  late,  and  went  at  once  into  court. 
In  wig  and  gown,  that  something  "old  Georgian" 
about  him  was  very  visible.  A  beauty-spot  or  two, 
a  full-skirted  velvet  coat,  a  sword  and  snuff-box, 
with  that  grey  wig  or  its  equivalent,  and  there  would 
have  been  a  perfect  eighteenth-century  specimen  of 
the  less  bucolic  stamp — the  same  strong,  light  build, 
breadth  of  face,  brown  pallor,  clean  and  unpinched 
cut  of  lips,  the  same  slight  insolence  and  devil-may- 
caredom,  the  same  clear  glance,  and  bubble  of  vital- 
ity.    It  was  almost  a  pity  to  have  been  born  so  late. 

Except  that  once  or  twice  he  drew  a  face  on 
blotting-paper  and  smeared  it  over,  he  remained 


BEYOND  297 

normally  attentive  to  his  "hid"  and  the  matters  in 
hand  all  day,  conducted  without  error  the  exami- 
nation of  two  witnesses  and  with  terror  the  cross- 
examination  of  one;  lunched  at  the  Courts  in  perfect 
amity  with  the  sucking  barrister  on  the  other  side 
of  the  case,  for  they  had  neither,  as  yet,  reached 
that  maturity  which  enables  an  advocate  to  call  his 
enemy  his  "friend,"  and  treat  him  with  considerable 
asperity.  Though  among  his  acquaintances  Sum- 
merhay  always  provoked  badinage,  in  which  he  was 
scarcely  ever  defeated,  yet  in  chambers  and  court, 
on  circuit,  at  his  club,  in  society  or  the  hunting-field, 
he  had  an  unfavourable  effect  on  the  grosser  sort  of 
stories.  There  are  men — by  no  means  strikingly 
moral — who  exercise  this  blighting  influence.  They 
are  generally  what  the  French  call  " spirituel"  and 
often  have  rather  desperate  love-affairs  which  they 
keep  very  closely  to  themselves. 

When  at  last  in  chambers,  he  had  washed  off  that 
special  reek  of  clothes,  and  parchment,  far-away 
herrings,  and  distemper,  which  clings  about  the 
law,  dipping  his  whole  curly  head  in  water,  and 
towelling  vigorously,  he  set  forth  alone  along  the 
Embankment,  his  hat  tilted  up,  smoking  a  cigar. 
It  was  nearly  seven.  Just  this  time  yesterday  he 
had  got  into  the  train,  just  this  time  yesterday  turned 
and  seen  the  face  which  had  refused  to  leave  him 
since.  Fever  recurs  at  certain  hours,  just  so  did 
the  desire  to  see  her  mount  within  him,  becoming 
an  obsession,  because  it  was  impossible  to  gratify  it. 
One  could  not  call  at  seven  o'clock !    The  idea  of 


298  BEYOND 

his  club,  where  at  this  time  of  day  he  usually  went, 
seemed  flat  and  stale,  until  he  remembered  that  he 
might  pass  up  Bury  Street  to  get  to  it.  But,  near 
Charing  Cross,  a  hand  smote  him  on  the  shoulder, 
and  the  voice  of  one  of  his  intimates  said: 

"Hallo,  Bryan!" 

Odd,  that  he  had  never  noticed  before  how  vacu- 
ous this  fellow  was — with  his  talk  of  politics,  and 
racing,  of  this  ass  and  that  ass — subjects  hitherto  of 
primary  importance!  And,  stopping  suddenly,  he 
drawled  out: 

"Look  here,  old  chap,  you  go  on;  see  you  at  the 
club — presently." 

"Why?    What's  up?" 

With  his  lazy  smile,  Summerhay  answered: 

"'There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth, 
Horatio,' "  and  turned  on  his  heel. 

When  his  friend  had  disappeared,  he  resumed  his 
journey  toward  Bury  Street.  He  passed  his  boot 
shop,  where,  for  some  time,  he  had  been  meaning 
to  order  two  pairs,  and  went  by  thinking:  'I  wonder 
where  she  goes  for  things.'  Her  figure  came  to  him 
so  vividly — sitting  back  in  that  corner,  or  standing 
by  the  cab,  her  hand  in  his.  The  blood  rushed  up 
in  his  cheeks.  She  had  been  scented  like  flowers, 
and — and  a  rainy  wind !  He  stood  still  before  a 
plate-glass  window,  in  confusion,  and  suddenly  mut- 
tered aloud:  "Damn  it !  I  believe  lam!"  An  old 
gentleman,  passing,  turned  so  suddenly,  to  see  what 
he  was,  that  he  ricked  his  neck. 

But  Summerhay  still  stood,  not  taking  in  at  all 
the  reflected  image  of  his  frowning,  rueful  face,  and 


BEYOND  299 

of  the  cigar  extinct  between  his  lips.  Then  he  shook 
his  head  vigorously  and  walked  on.  He  walked 
faster,  his  mind  blank,  as  it  is  sometimes  for  a  short 
space  after  a  piece  of  self-revelation  that  has  come 
too  soon  for  adjustment  or  even  quite  for  under- 
standing. And  when  he  began  to  think,  it  was  irri- 
tably and  at  random.  He  had  come  to  Bury  Street, 
and,  while  he  passed  up  it,  felt  a  queer,  weak  sensa- 
tion down  the  back  of  his  legs.  No  flower-boxes 
this  year  broke  the  plain  front  of  Winton's  house, 
and  nothing  whatever  but  its  number  and  the  quick- 
ened beating  of  his  heart  marked  it  out  for  Summer- 
hay  from  any  other  dwelling.  The  moment  he 
turned  into  Jermyn  Street,  that  beating  of  the  heart 
subsided,  and  he  felt  suddenly  morose.  He  entered 
his  club  at  the  top  of  St.  James'  Street  and  passed 
at  once  into  the  least  used  room.  This  was  the 
library;  and  going  to  the  French  section,  he  took 
down  "The  Three  Musketeers"  and  seated  himself 
in  a  window,  with  his  back  to  anyone  who  might 
come  in.  He  had  taken  this — his  favourite  romance, 
feeling  in  want  of  warmth  and  companionship;  but 
he  did  not  read.  From  where  he  sat  he  could  throw 
a  stone  to  where  she  was  sitting  perhaps;  except  for 
walls  he  could  almost  reach  her  with  his  voice,  could 
certainly  see  her.  This  was  imbecile !  A  woman 
he  had  only  met  twice.  Imbecile !  He  opened  the 
book — 

"  Oh,  no;  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken. 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's  unknown  altho'  its  heisrht  be  taken." 


300  BEYOND 

"Point  of  five!  Three  queens — three  knaves! 
Do  you  know  that  thing  of  Dowson's :  '  I  have  been 
faithful  to  thee,  Cynara,  in  my  fashion'?  Better 
than  any  Verlaine,  except  'Les  sanglots  longs'  What 
have  you  got?" 

"Only  quart  to  the  queen.  Do  you  like  the  name 
'Cynara'?" 

"Yes;  don't  you?" 

"  Cynara !  Cynara !  Ye-es — an  autumn,  rose- 
petal,  whirling,  dead-leaf  sound." 

"Good!    Pipped.     Shut  up,  Ossy — don't  snore!" 

"Ah,  poor  old  dog!  Let  him.  Shuffle  for  me, 
please.  Oh!  there  goes  another  card!"  Her  knee 
was  touching  his !  .  .  . 

The  book  had  dropped — Summerhay  started. 

Dash  it !  Hopeless !  And,  turning  round  in  that 
huge  armchair,  he  snoozed  down  into  its  depths. 
In  a  few  minutes,  he  was  asleep.  He  slept  without 
a  dream. 

It  was  two  hours  later  when  the  same  friend, 
seeking  distraction,  came  on  him,  and  stood  grinning 
down  at  that  curly  head  and  face  which  just  then 
had  the  sleepy  abandonment  of  a  small  boy's.  Ma- 
liciously he  gave  the  chair  a  little  kick. 

Summerhay  stirred,  and  thought:  '  What !  Where 
ami?' 

In  front  of  the  grinning  face,  above  him,  floated 
another,  filmy,  charming.  He  shook  himself,  and 
sat  up.     "Oh,  damn  you!" 

"Sorry,  old  chap!" 

"What  time  is  it?" 


BEYOND  301 

"Ten  o'clock." 

Summerhay  uttered  an  unintelligible  sound,  and, 
turning  over  on  the  other  arm,  pretended  to  snooze 
down  again.  But  he  slept  no  more.  Instead,  he 
saw  her  face,  heard  her  voice,  and  felt  again  the 
touch  of  her  warm,  gloved  hand. 


Ill 

At  the  opera,  that  Friday  evening,  they  were 
playing  "Cavalleria"  and  "Pagliacci" — works  of 
which  Gyp  tolerated  the  first  and  loved  the  second, 
while  Winton  found  them,  with  "Faust"  and  "Car- 
men," about  the  only  operas  he  could  not  sleep 
through. 

Women's  eyes,  which  must  not  stare,  cover  more 
space  than  the  eyes  of  men,  which  must  not  stare, 
but  do;  women's  eyes  have  less  method,  too,  seeing 
all  things  at  once,  instead  of  one  thing  at  a  time. 
Gyp  had  seen  Summerhay  long  before  he  saw  her; 
seen  him  come  in  and  fold  his  opera  hat  against  his 
white  waistcoat,  looking  round,  as  if  for — someone. 
Her  eyes  criticized  him  in  this  new  garb — his  broad 
head,  and  its  crisp,  dark,  shining  hair,  his  air  of 
sturdy,  lazy,  lovable  audacity.  He  looked  well  in 
evening  clothes.  When  he  sat  down,  she  could  still 
see  just  a  little  of  his  profile;  and,  vaguely  watching 
the  stout  Santuzza  and  the  stouter  Turiddu,  she 
wondered  whether,  by  fixing  her  eyes  on  him,  she 
could  make  him  turn  and  see  her.  Just  then  he  did 
see  her,  and  his  face  lighted  up.  She  smiled  back. 
Why  not  ?  She  had  not  so  many  friends  nowadays. 
But  it  was  rather  startling  to  find,  after  that  ex- 
change of  looks,  that  she  at  once  began  to  want 
another.  Would  he  like  her  dress?  Was  her  hair 
nice?     She  wished  she  had  not  had  it  washed  that 


BEYOND  303 

morning.  But  when  the  interval  came,  she  did  not 
look  round,  until  his  voice  said: 

"How  d'you  do,  Major  Winton?  Oh,  how  d'you 
do?" 

Winton  had  been  told  of  the  meeting  in  the  train. 
He  was  pining  for  a  cigarette,  but  had  not  liked  to 
desert  his  daughter.  After  a  few  remarks,  he  got 
up  and  said: 

"Take  my  pew  a  minute,  Summerhay,  I'm  going 
to  have  a  smoke." 

He  went  out,  thinking,  not  for  the  first  time  by 
a  thousand:  'Poor  child,  she  never  sees  a  soul! 
Twenty-five,  pretty  as  paint,  and  clean  out  of  the 
running.    What  the  devil  am  I  to  do  about  her  ? ' 

Summerhay  sat  down.  Gyp  had  a  queer  feeling, 
then,  as  if  the  house  and  people  vanished,  and  they 
two  were  back  again  in  the  railway-carriage — alone 
together.  Ten  minutes  to  make  the  most  of!  To 
smile  and  talk,  and  enjoy  the  look  in  his  eyes,  the 
sound  of  his  voice  and  laugh.  To  laugh,  too,  and 
be  warm  and  nice  to  him.  Why  not?  They  were 
friends.    And,  presently,  she  said,  smiling: 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  there's  a  picture  in  the  National 
Gallery,  I  want  you  to  look  at." 

"Yes?    Which?    Will  you  take  me ? " 

"If  you  like." 

"To-morrow's  Saturday;  may  I  meet  you  there? 
What  time?    Three?" 

Gyp  nodded.  She  knew  she  was  flushing,  and, 
at  that  moment,  with  the  warmth  in  her  cheeks  and 
the  smile  in  her  eyes,  she  had  the  sensation,  so  rare 


304  BEYOND 

and  pleasant,  of  feeling  beautiful.  Then  he  was 
gone!  Her  father  was  slipping  back  into  his  stall; 
and,  afraid  of  her  own  face,  she  touched  his  arm, 
and  murmured: 

"Dad,  do  look  at  that  head-dress  in  the  next  row 
but  one;  did  you  ever  see  anything  so  delicious !" 

And  while  Winton  was  star-gazing,  the  orchestra 
struck  up  the  overture  to  "Pagliacci."  Watching 
that  heart-breaking  little  plot  unfold,  Gyp  had 
something  more  than  the  old  thrill,  as  if  for  the 
first  time  she  understood  it  with  other  than  her 
aesthetic  sense.  Poor  Nedda !  and  poor  Canio ! 
Poor  Silvio !  Her  breast  heaved,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  Within  those  doubled  figures  of  the 
tragi-comedy  she  seemed  to  see,  to  feel  that  pas- 
sionate love — too  swift,  too  strong,  too  violent, 
sweet  and  fearful  within  them. 

"Thou  hast  my  heart,  and  I  am  thine  for  ever — 
To-night  and  for  ever  I  am  thine ! 

What  is  there  left  to  me?    What  have  I  but  a  heart  that 
is  broken?" 

And  the  clear,  heart-aching  music  mocking  it  all, 
down  to  those  last  words: 

La  commedia  e  finita! 

While  she  was  putting  on  her  cloak,  her  eyes 
caught  Summerhay's.  She  tried  to  smile — could 
not,  gave  a  shake  of  her  head,  slowly  forced  her  gaze 
away  from  his,  and  turned  to  follow  Winton. 

At  the  National  Gallery,  next  day,  she  was  not 
late  by  coquetry,  but  because  she  had  changed  her 


BEYOND  305 

dress  at  the  last  minute,  and  because  she  was  afraid 
of  letting  him  think  her  eager.  She  saw  him  at 
once  standing  under  the  colonnade,  looking  by  no 
means  imperturbable,  and  marked  the  change  in 
his  face  when  he  caught  sight  of  her,  with  a  little 
thrill.  She  led  him  straight  up  into  the  first  Italian 
room  to  contemplate  his  counterfeit.  A  top  hat 
and  modern  collar  did  not  improve  the  likeness,  but 
it  was  there  still. 

"Well!    Do  you  like  it?" 

"Yes.    What  are  you  smiHng  at?" 

"Fve  had  a  photograph  of  that,  ever  since  I  was 
fifteen;  so  you  see  I've  known  you  a  long  time." 

He  stared. 

"  Great  Scott !  Am  I  like  that  ?  All  right;  I  shall 
try  and  find  you  now." 

But  Gyp  shook  her  head. 

"No.  Come  and  look  at  my  very  favourite  pic- 
ture 'The  Death  of  Procris.'  What  is  it  makes 
one  love  it  so?  Procris  is  out  of  drawing,  and  not 
beautiful;  the  faun's  queer  and  ugly.  What  is  it — 
can  you  tell?" 

Summerhay  looked  not  at  the  picture,  but  at  her. 
In  aesthetic  sense,  he  was  not  her  equal.  She  said 
softly : 

"The  wonder  in  the  faun's  face,  Procris's  closed 
eyes;  the  dog,  and  the  swans,  and  the  pity  for  what 
might  have  been !" 

Summerhay  repeated: 

"Ah,  for  what  might  have  been !  Did  you  enjoy 
'Pagliacci'?" 


306  BEYOND 

Gyp  shivered. 

"I  think  I  felt  it  too  much." 

"I  thought  you  did.     I  watched  you." 

"  Destruction  by — love — seems  such  a  terrible 
thing !  Now  show  me  your  favourites.  I  believe 
I  can  tell  you  what  they  are,  though." 

"Well?" 

"The  'Admiral/  for  one." 

"Yes.     What  others?" 

"The  two  Bellini's." 

"By  Jove,  you  are  uncanny!" 

Gyp  laughed. 

"You  want  decision,  clarity,  colour,  and  fine  tex- 
ture. Is  that  right?  Here's  another  of  my  favour- 
ites." 

On  a  screen  was  a  tiny  "Crucifixion"  by  da  Mes- 
sina— the  thinnest  of  high  crosses,  the  thinnest  of 
simple,  humble,  suffering  Christs,  lonely,  and  actual 
in  the  clear,  darkened  landscape. 

"I  think  that  touches  one  more  than  the  big, 
idealized  sort.  One  feels  it  was  like  that.  Oh ! 
And  look — the  Francesca's !    Aren't  they  lovely  ?  " 

He  repeated: 

"Yes;  lovely!"  But  his  eyes  said:  "And  so  are 
you." 

They  spent  two  hours  among  those  endless  pic- 
tures, talking  a  little  of  art  and  of  much  besides, 
almost  as  alone  as  in  the  railway  carriage.  But, 
when  she  had  refused  to  let  him  walk  back  with  her, 
Summerhay  stood  stock-still  beneath  the  colonnade. 
The  sun  streamed  in  under;  the  pigeons  preened  their 


BEYOND  307 

feathers;  people  passed  behind  him  and  down  there 
in  the  square,  black  and  tiny  against  the  lions  and 
the  great  column.  He  took  in  nothing  of  all  that. 
What  was  it  in  her?  She  was  like  no  one  he  had 
ever  known — not  one !  Different  from  girls  and 
women  in  society  as —  Simile  failed.  Still  more 
different  from  anything  in  the  half-world  he  had 
met !  Not  the  new  sort — college,  suffrage !  Like  no 
one !  And  he  knew  so  little  of  her !  Not  even 
whether  she  had  ever  really  been  in  love.  Her  hus- 
band— where  was  he;  what  was  he  to  her?  "The 
rare,  the  mute,  the  inexpressive  She!"  When  she 
smiled;  when  her  eyes — but  her  eyes  were  so  quick, 
would  drop  before  he  could  see  right  into  them ! 
How  beautiful  she  had  looked,  gazing  at  that  pic- 
ture — her  favourite,  so  softly,  her  lips  just  smiling ! 
If  he  could  kiss  them,  would  he  not  go  nearly  mad  ? 
With  a  deep  sigh,  he  moved  down  the  wide,  grey 
steps  into  the  sunlight.  And  London,  throbbing, 
overflowing  with  the  season's  life,  seemed  to  him 
empty.     To-morrow — yes,  to-morrow  he  could  call ! 


IV 

After  that  Sunday  call,  Gyp  sat  in  the  window 
at  Bury  Street  close  to  a  bowl  of  heliotrope  on  the 
window-sill.  She  was  thinking  over  a  passage  of 
their  conversation. 

"Mrs.  Fiorsen,  tell  me  about  yourself." 

"Why?    What  do  you  want  to  know?" 

"Your  marriage?" 

"I  made  a  fearful  mistake — against  my  father's 
wish.  I  haven't  seen  my  husband  for  months;  I 
shall  never  see  him  again  if  I  can  help  it.  Is  that 
enough?" 

"And  you  love  him?" 

"No." 

"It  must  be  like  having  your  head  in  chancery. 
Can't  you  get  it  out?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"  Divorce-court !    Ugh !    I  couldn't ! " 

"Yes,  I  know— it's  hellish!" 

Was  he,  who  gripped  her  hand  so  hard  and  said 
that,  really  the  same  nonchalant  young  man  who 
had  leaned  out  of  the  carriage  window,  gurgling  with 
laughter  ?  And  what  had  made  the  difference  ?  She 
buried  her  face  in  the  heliotrope,  whose  perfume 
seemed  the  memory  of  his  visit;  then,  going  to  the 
piano,  began  to  play.     She  played  Debussy,  Mc- 

308 


BEYOND  309 

Dowell,  Ravel;  the  chords  of  modern  music  suited 
her  feelings  just  then.  And  she  was  still  playing 
when  her  father  came  in.  During  these  last  nine 
months  of  his  daughter's  society,  he  had  regained 
a  distinct  measure  of  youthfulness,  an  extra  twist  in 
his  little  moustache,  an  extra  touch  of  dandyism  in 
his  clothes,  and  the  gloss  of  his  short  hair.  Gyp 
stopped  playing  at  once,  and  shut  the  piano. 

"Mr.  Summerhay's  been  here,  Dad.  He  was 
sorry  to  miss  you." 

There  was  an  appreciable  pause  before  Winton 
answered: 

"My  dear,  I  doubt  it." 

And  there  passed  through  Gyp  the  thought  that 
she  could  never  again  be  friends  with  a  man  with- 
out giving  that  pause.  Then,  conscious  that  her 
father  was  gazing  at  her,  she  turned  and  said: 

"Well,  was  it  nice  in  the  Park?" 

"Thirty  years  ago  they  were  all  nobs  and  snobs; 
now  God  himself  doesn't  know  what  they  are!" 

"But  weren't  the  flowers  nice?" 

"Ah — and  the  trees,  and  the  birds — but,  by  Jove, 
the  humans  do  their  best  to  dress  the  balance!" 

"What  a  misanthrope  you're  getting!" 

"I'd  like  to  run  a  stud  for  two-leggers;  they  want 
proper  breeding.  What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  young 
Summerhay  ?    Not  a  bad  face." 

She  answered  impassively: 

"Yes;  it's  so  alive." 

In  spite  of  his  self-control,  she  could  always  read 
her  father's  thoughts  quicker  than  he  could  read 


3io  BEYOND 

hers,  and  knew  that  he  was  struggling  between  the 
wish  that  she  should  have  a  good  time  and  the  de- 
sire to  convey  some  kind  of  warning.  He  said,  with 
a  sigh: 

"What  does  a  young  man's  fancy  turn  to  in  sum- 
mer, Gyp?" 

Women  who  have  subtle  instincts  and  some  ex- 
perience are  able  to  impose  their  own  restraint  on 
those  who,  at  the  lifting  of  a  hand,  would  become 
their  lovers.  From  that  afternoon  on,  Gyp  knew 
that  a  word  from  her  would  change  everything;  but 
she  was  far  from  speaking  it.  And  yet,  except  at 
week-ends,  when  she  went  back  to  her  baby  at  Mil- 
denham,  she  saw  Summerhay  most  days — in  the 
Row,  at  the  opera,  or  at  Bury  Street.  She  had  a 
habit  of  going  to  St.  James's  Park  in  the  late  after- 
noon and  sitting  there  by  the  water.  Was  it  by 
chance  that  he  passed  one  day  on  his  way  home 
from  chambers,  and  that,  after  this,  they  sat  there 
together  constantly  ?  Why  make  her  father  uneasy 
— when  there  was  nothing  to  be  uneasy  about — by 
letting  him  come  too  often  to  Bury  Street?  It  was 
so  pleasant,  too,  out  there,  talking  calmly  of  many 
things,  while  in  front  of  them  the  small  ragged 
children  fished  and  put  the  fishes  into  clear  glass 
bottles,  to  eat,  or  watch  on  rainy  days,  as  is  the  cus- 
tom of  man  with  the  minor  works  of  God. 

So,  in  nature,  when  the  seasons  are  about  to 
change,  the  days  pass,  tranquil,  waiting  for  the 
wind  that  brings  in  the  new.     And  was  it  not  natural 


BEYOND  311 

to  sit  under  the  trees,  by  the  flowers  and  the  water, 
the  pigeons  and  the  ducks,  that  wonderful  July? 
For  all  was  peaceful  in  Gyp's  mind,  except,  now  and 
then,  when  a  sort  of  remorse  possessed  her,  a  sort  of 
terror,  and  a  sort  of  troubling  sweetness. 


V 

Summerhay  did  not  wear  his  heart  on  his  sleeve, 
and  when,  on  the  closing-day  of  term,  he  left  his 
chambers  to  walk  to  that  last  meeting,  his  face  was 
much  as  usual  under  his  grey  top  hat.  But,  in 
truth,  he  had  come  to  a  pretty  pass.  He  had  his 
own  code  of  what  was  befitting  to  a  gentleman.  It 
was  perhaps  a  trifle  "old  Georgian,"  but  it  included 
doing  nothing  to  distress  a  woman.  All  these  weeks 
he  had  kept  himself  in  hand;  but  to  do  so  had  cost 
him  more  than  he  liked  to  reflect  on.  The  only 
witness  of  his  struggles  was  his  old  Scotch  terrier, 
whose  dreams  he  had  disturbed  night  after  night, 
tramping  up  and  down  the  long  back-to-front  sit- 
ting-room of  his  little  house.  She  knew — must 
know — what  he  was  feeling.  If  she  wanted  his  love, 
she  had  but  to  raise  her  ringer;  and  she  had  not 
raised  it.  When  he  touched  her,  when  her  dress 
disengaged  its  perfume  or  his  eyes  traced  the  slow, 
soft  movement  of  her  breathing,  his  head  would  go 
round,  and  to  keep  calm  and  friendly  had  been 
torture. 

While  he  could  see  her  almost  every  day,  this  con- 
trol had  been  just  possible;  but  now  that  he  was 
about  to  lose  her — for  weeks — his  heart  felt  sick 
within  him.  He  had  been  hard  put  to  it  before  the 
world.     A  man  passionately  in  love  craves  solitude, 

312 


BEYOND  313 

in  which  to  alternate  between  fierce  exercise  and 
that  trance-like  stillness  when  a  lover  simply  aches 
or  is  busy  conjuring  her  face  up  out  of  darkness  or 
the  sunlight.  He  had  managed  to  do  his  work,  had 
been  grateful  for  having  it  to  do;  but  to  his  friends 
he  had  not  given  attention  enough  to  prevent  them 
saying:  "What's  up  with  old  Bryan?"  Always 
rather  elusive  in  his  movements,  he  was  now  too 
elusive  altogether  for  those  who  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  lunch,  dine,  dance,  and  sport  with  him. 
And  yet  he  shunned  his  own  company — going  wher- 
ever strange  faces,  life,  anything  distracted  him  a 
little,  without  demanding  real  attention.  It  must 
be  confessed  that  he  had  come  unwillingly  to  dis- 
covery of  the  depth  of  his  passion,  aware  that  it 
meant  giving  up  too  much.  But  there  are  women 
who  inspire  feeling  so  direct  and  simple  that  reason 
does  not  come  into  play;  and  he  had  never  asked 
himself  whether  Gyp  was  worth  loving,  whether  she 
had  this  or  that  quality,  such  or  such  virtue.  He 
wanted  her  exactly  as  she  was;  and  did  not  weigh 
her  in  any  sort  of  balance.  It  is  possible  for  men 
to  love  passionately,  yet  know  that  their  passion  is 
but  desire,  possible  for  men  to  love  for  sheer  spiritual 
worth,  feeling  that  the  loved  one  lacks  this  or  that 
charm. 

Summerhay's  love  had  no  such  divided  conscious- 
ness. About  her  past,  too,  he  dismissed  speculation. 
He  remembered  having  heard  in  the  hunting-field 
that  she  was  Winton's  natural  daughter;  even  then 
it  had  made  him  long  to  punch  the  head  of  that 


314  BEYOND 

covertside  scandal-monger.  The  more  there  might 
be  against  the  desirability  of  loving  her,  the  more  he 
would  love  her;  even  her  wretched  marriage  only 
affected  him  in  so  far  as  it  affected  her  happiness. 
It  did  not  matter — nothing  mattered  except  to  see 
her  and  be  with  her  as  much  as  she  would  let  him. 
And  now  she  was  going  to  the  sea  for  a  month,  and 
he  himself — curse  it! — was  due  in  Perthshire  to 
shoot  grouse.     A  month ! 

He  walked  slowly  along  the  river.  Dared  he 
speak?  At  times,  her  face  was  like  a  child's  when 
it  expects  some  harsh  or  frightening  word.  One 
could  not  hurt  her — impossible !  But,  at  times,  he 
had  almost  thought  she  would  like  him  to  speak. 
Once  or  twice  he  had  caught  a  slow  soft  glance — 
gone  the  moment  he  had  sight  of  it. 

He  was  before  his  time,  and,  leaning  on  the  river 
parapet,  watched  the  tide  run  down.  The  sun  shone 
on  the  water,  brightening  its  yellowish  swirl,  and  lit- 
tle black  eddies — the  same  water  that  had  flowed 
along  under  the  willows  past  Eynsham,  past  Oxford, 
under  the  church  at  Clifton,  past  Moulsford,  past 
Sonning.  And  he  thought:  'My  God!  To  have 
her  to  myself  one  day  on  the  river — one  whole  long 
day ! '  Why  had  he  been  so  pusillanimous  all  this 
time?  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  face.  Broad 
faces  do  not  easily  grow  thin,  but  his  felt  thin  to 
him,  and  this  gave  him  a  kind  of  morbid  satisfac- 
tion. If  she  knew  how  he  was  longing,  how  he  suf- 
fered! He  turned  away,  toward  Whitehall.  Two 
men  he  knew  stopped  to  bandy  a  jest.     One  of  them 


BEYOND  315 

was  just  married.  They,  too,  were  off  to  Scotland 
for  the  twelfth.  Pah !  How  stale  and  flat  seemed 
that  which  till  then  had  been  the  acme  of  the  whole 
year  to  him !  Ah,  but  if  he  had  been  going  to  Scot- 
land with  her !  He  drew  his  breath  in  with  a  sigh 
that  nearly  removed  the  Home  Office. 

Oblivious  of  the  gorgeous  sentries  at  the  Horse 
Guards,  oblivious  of  all  beauty,  he  passed  irresolute 
along  the  water,  making  for  their  usual  seat;  already, 
in  fancy,  he  was  sitting  there,  prodding  at  the  gravel, 
a  nervous  twittering  in  his  heart,  and  that  eternal 
question:  Dare  I  speak?  asking  itself  within  him. 
And  suddenly  he  saw  that  she  was  before  him,  sit- 
ting there  already.  His  heart  gave  a  jump.  No 
more  craning — he  would  speak ! 

She  was  wearing  a  maize-coloured  muslin  to  which 
the  sunlight  gave  a  sort  of  transparency,  and  sat, 
leaning  back,  her  knees  crossed,  one  hand  resting 
on  the  knob  of  her  furled  sunshade,  her  face  half 
hidden  by  her  shady  hat.  Summerhay  clenched  his 
teeth,  and  went  straight  up  to  her. 

"  Gyp  !  No,  I  won't  call  you  anything  else.  This 
can't  go  on !  You  know  it  can't.  You  know  I 
worship  you !  If  you  can't  love  me,  I've  got  to 
break  away.  All  day,  all  night,  I  think  and  dream 
of  nothing  but  you.     Gyp,  do  you  want  me  to  go?" 

Suppose  she  said:  "Yes,  go!"  She  made  a  little 
movement,  as  if  in  protest,  and  without  looking  at 
him,  answered  very  low: 

"Of  course  I  don't  want  you  to  go.  How  could 
I?" 


3i6  BEYOND 

Summerhay  gasped. 

"Then  you  do  love  me?" 

She  turned  her  face  away. 

"Wait,  please.  Wait  a  little  longer.  When  we 
come  back  I'll  tell  you:  I  promise!" 

"So  long?" 

"A  month.  Is  that  long?  Please !  It's  not  easy 
for  me."  She  smiled  faintly,  lifted  her  eyes  to  him 
just  for  a  second.     "Please  not  any  more  now." 

That  evening  at  his  club,  through  the  bluish 
smoke  of  cigarette  after  cigarette,  he  saw  her  face 
as  she  had  lifted  it  for  that  one  second;  and  now  he 
was  in  heaven,  now  in  hell. 


VI 

The  verandahed  bungalow  on  the  South  Coast, 
built  and  inhabited  by  an  artist  friend  of  Aunt 
Rosamund's,  had  a  garden  of  which  the  chief  fea- 
ture was  one  pine-tree  which  had  strayed  in  advance 
of  the  wood  behind.  The  little  house  stood  in  soli- 
tude, just  above  a  low  bank  of  cliff  whence  the  beach 
sank  in  sandy  ridges.  The  verandah  and  thick  pine 
wood  gave  ample  shade,  and  the  beach  all  the  sun 
and  sea  air  needful  to  tan  little  Gyp,  a  fat,  tum- 
bling soul,  as  her  mother  had  been  at  the  same  age, 
incurably  fond  and  fearless  of  dogs  or  any  kind  of 
beast,  and  speaking  words  already  that  required  a 
glossary. 

At  night,  Gyp,  looking  from  her  bedroom  through 
the  flat  branches  of  the  pine,  would  get  a  feeling  of 
being  the  only  creature  in  the  world.  The  crinkled, 
silvery  sea,  that  lonely  pine-tree,  the  cold  moon, 
the  sky  dark  corn-flower  blue,  the  hiss  and  sucking 
rustle  of  the  surf  over  the  beach  pebbles,  even  the 
salt,  chill  air,  seemed  lonely.  By  day,  too — in  the 
hazy  heat  when  the  clouds  merged,  scarce  drifting, 
into  the  blue,  and  the  coarse  sea-grass  tufts  hardly 
quivered,  and  sea-birds  passed  close  above  the  water 
with  chuckle  and  cry — it  all  often  seemed  part  of  a 
dream.     She  bathed,  and  grew  as  tanned  as  her  lit- 

3*7 


318  BEYOND 

tie  daughter,  a  regular  Gypsy,  in  her  broad  hat  and 
linen  frocks;  and  yet  she  hardly  seemed  to  be  living 
down  here  at  all,  for  she  was  never  free  of  the  mem- 
ory of  that  last  meeting  with  Summerhay.  Why 
had  he  spoken  and  put  an  end  to  their  quiet  friend- 
ship, and  left  her  to  such  heart-searchings  all  by 
herself?  But  she  did  not  want  his  words  unsaid. 
Only,  how  to  know  whether  to  recoil  and  fly,  or  to 
pass  beyond  the  dread  of  letting  herself  go,  of  plung- 
ing deep  into  the  unknown  depths  of  love — of  that 
passion,  whose  nature  for  the  first  time  she  had 
tremulously  felt,  watching  "Pagliacci" — and  had 
ever  since  been  feeling  and  trembling  at !  Must  it 
really  be  neck  or  nothing?  Did  she  care  enough  to 
break  through  all  barriers,  fling  herself  into  mid- 
stream? When  they  could  see  each  other  every 
day,  it  was  so  easy  to  live  for  the  next  meeting — not 
think  of  what  was  coming  after.  But  now,  with  all 
else  cut  away,  there  was  only  the  future  to  think 
about — hers  and  his.  But  need  she  trouble  about 
his  ?  Would  he  not  just  love  her  as  long  as  he  liked  ? 
Then  she  thought  of  her  father — still  faithful  to 
a  memory — and  felt  ashamed.  Some  men  loved  on 
— yes — even  beyond  death !  But,  sometimes,  she 
would  think:  'Am  I  a  candle-flame  again?  Is  he 
just  going  to  burn  himself?  What  real  good  can  I 
be  to  him — I,  without  freedom,  and  with  my  baby, 
who  will  grow  up  ? '  Yet  all  these  thoughts  were,  in 
a  way,  unreal.  The  struggle  was  in  herself,  so  deep 
that  she  could  hardly  understand  it;  as  might  be  an 
effort  to  subdue  the  instinctive  dread  of  a  precipice. 


BEYOND  319 

And  she  would  feel  a  kind  of  resentment  against  all 
the  happy  life  round  her  these  summer  days — the 
sea-birds,  the  sunlight,  and  the  waves;  the  white 
sails  far  out;  the  calm  sun-steeped  pine-trees;  her 
baby,  tumbling  and  smiling  and  softly  twittering; 
and  Betty  and  the  other  servants — all  this  life  that 
seemed  so  simple  and  untortured. 

To  the  one  post  each  day  she  looked  forward  ter- 
ribly. And  yet  his  letters,  which  began  like  hers: 
"My  dear  friend,"  might  have  been  read  by  any- 
one— almost.  She  spent  a  long  time  over  her  an- 
swers. She  was  not  sleeping  well;  and,  lying  awake, 
she  could  see  his  face  very  distinct  before  her  closed 
eyes — its  teasing,  lazy  smile,  its  sudden  intent  grav- 
ity. Once  she  had  a  dream  of  him,  rushing  past 
her  down  into  the  sea.  She  called,  but,  without 
turning  his  head,  he  swam  out  further,  further,  till 
she  lost  sight  of  him,  and  woke  up  suddenly  with  a 
pain  in  her  heart.  "If  you  can't  love  me,  I've  got 
to  break  away !"  His  face,  his  Aung-back  head  re- 
minded her  too  sharply  of  those  words.  Now  that 
he  was  away  from  her,  would  he  not  feel  that  it  was 
best  to  break,  and  forget  her?  Up  there,  he  would 
meet  girls  untouched  by  life — not  like  herself.  He 
had  everything  before  him;  could  he  possibly  go  on 
wanting  one  who  had  nothing  before  her?  Some 
blue-eyed  girl  with  auburn  hair — that  type  so  supe- 
rior to  her  own — would  sweep,  perhaps  had  already 
swept  him,  away  from  her!  What  then?  No 
worse  than  it  used  to  be?  Ah,  so  much  worse  that 
she  dared  not  think  of  it ! 


320  BEYOND 

Then,  for  five  days,  no  letter  came.  And,  with 
each  blank  morning,  the  ache  in  her  grew — a  sharp, 
definite  ache  of  longing  and  jealousy,  utterly  unlike 
the  mere  feeling  of  outraged  pride  when  she  had 
surprised  Fiorsen  and  Daphne  Wing  in  the  music- 
room — a  hundred  years  ago,  it  seemed.  When  on 
the  fifth  day  the  postman  left  nothing  but  a  bill  for 
little  Gyp's  shoes,  and  a  note  from  Aunt  Rosamund 
at  Harrogate,  where  she  had  gone  with  Winton  for 
the  annual  cure,  Gyp's  heart  sank  to  the  depths. 
Was  this  the  end?  And,  with  a  blind,  numb  feel- 
ing, she  wandered  out  into  the  wood,  where  the  fall 
of  the  pine-needles,  season  after  season,  had  made 
of  the  ground  one  soft,  dark,  dust-coloured  bed,  on 
which  the  sunlight  traced  the  pattern  of  the  pine 
boughs,  and  ants  rummaged  about  their  great 
heaped  dwellings. 

Gyp  went  along  till  she  could  see  no  outer  world 
for  the  grey-brown  tree-stems  streaked  with  gum- 
resin;  and,  throwing  herself  down  on  her  face,  dug 
her  elbows  deep  into  the  pine  dust.  Tears,  so  rare 
with  her,  forced  their  way  up,  and  trickled  slowly 
to  the  hands  whereon  her  chin  rested.  No  good — 
crying!  Crying  only  made  her  ill;  crying  was  no 
relief.  She  turned  over  on  her  back  and  lay  mo- 
tionless, the  sunbeams  warm  on  her  cheeks.  Silent 
here,  even  at  noon !  The  sough  of  the  calm  sea 
could  not  reach  so  far;  the  flies  were  few;  no  bird 
sang.  The  tall  bare  pine  stems  rose  up  all  round 
like  columns  in  a  temple  roofed  with  the  dark  boughs 
and    sky.     Cloud-fleeces    drifted    slowly    over    the 


BEYOND  321 

blue.  There  should  be  peace — but  in  her  heart 
there  was  none ! 

A  dusky  shape  came  padding  through  the  trees  a 
little  way  off,  another — two  donkeys  loose  from 
somewhere,  who  stood  licking  each  other's  necks 
and  noses.  Those  two  humble  beasts,  so  friendly, 
made  her  feel  ashamed.  Why  should  she  be  sorry 
for  herself,  she  who  had  everything  in  life  she  wanted 
— except  love — the  love  she  had  thought  she  would 
never  want?  Ah,  but  she  wanted  it  now,  wanted 
it  at  last  with  all  her  being ! 

With  a  shudder,  she  sprang  up;  the  ants  had  got 
to  her,  and  she  had  to  pick  them  off  her  neck  and 
dress.  She  wandered  back  towards  the  beach.  If 
he  had  truly  found  someone  to  fill  his  thoughts,  and 
drive  her  out,  all  the  better  for  him;  she  would 
never,  by  word  or  sign,  show  him  that  she  missed, 
and  wanted  him — never !     She  would  sooner  die ! 

She  came  out  into  the  sunshine.  The  tide  was 
low;  and  the  wet  foreshore  gleamed  with  opal  tints; 
there  were  wandering  tracks  on  the  sea,  as  of  great 
serpents  winding  their  way  beneath  the  surface; 
and  away  to  the  west  the  archwayed,  tawny  rock 
that  cut  off  the  line  of  coast  was  like  a  dream-shape. 
All  was  dreamy.  And,  suddenly  her  heart  began 
beating  to  suffocation  and  the  colour  flooded  up  in 
her  cheeks.  On  the  edge  of  the  low  cliff  bank,  by 
the  side  of  the  path,  Summerhay  was  sitting ! 

He  got  up  and  came  toward  her.  Putting  her 
hands  up  to  her  glowing  face,  she  said: 

"Yes;  it's  me.    Did  you  ever  see  such  a  gipsified 


322  BEYOND 

object?  I  thought  you  were  still  in  Scotland. 
How's  dear  Ossy?"  Then  her  self-possession  failed, 
and  she  looked  down. 

"It's  no  good,  Gyp.     I  must  know." 

It  seemed  to  Gyp  that  her  heart  had  given  up 
beating;  she  said  quietly:  "Let's  sit  down  a  min- 
ute"; and  moved  under  the  cliff  bank  where  they 
could  not  be  seen  from  the  house.  There,  drawing 
the  coarse  grass  blades  through  her  fingers,  she  said, 
with  a  shiver: 

"I  didn't  try  to  make  you,  did  I?    I  never  tried." 

"No;  never." 

"It's  wrong." 

"Who  cares?  No  one  could  care  who  loves  as  I 
do.  Oh,  Gyp,  can't  you  love  me?  I  know  I'm 
nothing  much."  How  quaint  and  boyish!  "But 
it's  eleven  weeks  to-day  since  we  met  in  the 
train.  I  don't  think  I've  had  one  minute's  let-up 
since." 

"Have  you  tried?" 

"Why  should  I,  when  I  love  you?" 

Gyp  sighed;  relief,  delight,  pain — she  did  not 
know. 

"Then  what  is  to  be  done?  Look  over  there— 
that  bit  of  blue  in  the  grass  is  my  baby  daughter. 
There's  her — and  my  father — and " 

"And  what?" 

"I'm  afraid — afraid  of  love,  Bryan!" 

At  that  first  use  of  his  name,  Summerhay  turned 
pale  and  seized  her  hand. 

"  Afraid— how— afraid  ?  " 


BEYOND  323 

Gyp  said  very  low: 

"I  might  love  too  much.  Don't  say  any  more 
now.  No;  don't!  Let's  go  in  and  have  lunch." 
And  she  got  up. 

He  stayed  till  tea-time,  and  not  a  word  more  of 
love  did  he  speak.  But  when  he  was  gone,  she  sat 
under  the  pine-tree  with  little  Gyp  on  her  lap. 
Love !  If  her  mother  had  checked  love,  she  herself 
would  never  have  been  born.  The  midges  were  bit- 
ing before  she  went  in.  After  watching  Betty  give 
little  Gyp  her  bath,  she  crossed  the  passage  to  her 
bedroom  and  leaned  out  of  the  window.  Could  it 
have  been  to-day  she  had  lain  on  the  ground  with 
tears  of  despair  running  down  on  to  her  hands? 
Away  to  the  left  of  the  pine-tree,  the  moon  had 
floated  up,  soft,  barely  visible  in  the  paling  sky.  A 
new  world,  an  enchanted  garden!  And  between 
her  and  it — what  was  there? 

That  evening  she  sat  with  a  book  on  her  lap,  not 
reading;  and  in  her  went  on  the  strange  revolution 
which  comes  in  the  souls  of  all  women  who  are  not 
half -men  when  first  they  love — the  sinking  of  'V 
into  'Thou,'  the  passionate,  spiritual  subjection,  the 
intense,  unconscious  giving-up  of  will,  in  prepara- 
tion for  completer  union. 

She  slept  without  dreaming,  awoke  heavy  and 
oppressed.  Too  languid  to  bathe,  she  sat  listless 
on  the  beach  with  little  Gyp  all  the  morning.  Had 
she  energy  or  spirit  to  meet  him  in  the  afternoon  by 
the  rock  archway,  as  she  had  promised?  For  the 
first  time  since  she  was  a  small  and  naughty  child, 


324  BEYOND 

she  avoided  the  eyes  of  Betty.  One  could  not  be 
afraid  of  that  stout,  devoted  soul,  but  one  could  feel 
that  she  knew  too  much.  When  the  time  came, 
after  early  tea,  she  started  out;  for  if  she  did  not  go, 
he  would  come,  and  she  did  not  want  the  servants 
to  see  him  two  days  running. 

This  last  day  of  August  was  warm  and  still,  and 
had  a  kind  of  beneficence — the  corn  all  gathered  in, 
the  apples  mellowing,  robins  singing  already,  a  few 
slumberous,  soft  clouds,  a  pale  blue  sky,  a  smiling 
sea.  She  went  inland,  across  the  stream,  and  took 
a  footpath  back  to  the  shore.  No  pines  grew  on 
that  side,  where  the  soil  was  richer — of  a  ruddy 
brown.  The  second  crops  of  clover  were  already 
high;  in  them  humblebees  were  hard  at  work;  and, 
above,  the  white-throated  swallows  dipped  and 
soared.  Gyp  gathered  a  bunch  of  chicory  flowers. 
She  was  close  above  the  shore  before  she  saw  him 
standing  in  the  rock  archway,  looking  for  her  across 
the  beach.  After  the  hum  of  the  bees  and  flies,  it 
was  very  quiet  here — only  the  faintest  hiss  of  tiny 
waves.  He  had  not  yet  heard  her  coming,  and  the 
thought  flashed  through  her:  'If  I  take  another  step, 
it  is  for  ever ! '  She  stood  there  scarcely  breathing, 
the  chicory  flowers  held  before  her  lips.  Then  she 
heard  him  sigh,  and,  moving  quickly  forward,  said: 

"Here  I  am." 

He  turned  round,  seized  her  hand,  and,  without  a 
word,  they  passed  through  the  archway.  They 
walked  on  the  hard  sand,  side  by  side,  till  he  said: 

"Let's  go  up  into  the  fields." 


BEYOND  325 

They  scrambled  up  the  low  cliff  and  went  along 
the  grassy  top  to  a  gate  into  a  stubble  field.  He 
held  it  open  for  her,  but,  as  she  passed,  caught  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  lips  as  if  he  would  never 
stop.  To  her,  who  had  been  kissed  a  thousand 
times,  it  was  the  first  kiss.  Deadly  pale,  she  fell 
back  from  him  against  the  gate;  then,  her  lips  still 
quivering,  her  eyes  very  dark,  she  looked  at  him 
distraught  with  passion,  drunk  on  that  kiss.  And, 
suddenly  turning  round  to  the  gate,  she  laid  her 
arms  on  the  top  bar  and  buried  her  face  on  them. 
A  sob  came  up  in  her  throat  that  seemed  to  tear  her 
to  bits,  and  she  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
His  timid  despairing  touches,  his  voice  close  to  her 
ear: 

"  Gyp,  Gyp!  My  darling!  My  love!  Oh,  don't, 
Gyp!"  were  not  of  the  least  avail;  she  could  not 
stop.  That  kiss  had  broken  down  something  in  her 
soul,  swept  away  her  life  up  to  that  moment,  done 
something  terrible  and  wonderful.  At  last,  she 
struggled  out: 

"I'm  sorry — so  sorry !  Don't — don't  look  at  me ! 
Go  away  a  little,  and  I'll— I'll  be  all  right." 

He  obeyed  without  a  word,  and,  passing  through 
the  gate,  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  with  his 
back  to  her,  looking  out  over  the  sea. 

Gripping  the  wood  of  the  old  grey  gate  till  it  hurt 
her  hands,  Gyp  gazed  at  the  chicory  flowers  and 
poppies  that  had  grown  up  again  in  the  stubble 
field,  at  the  butterflies  chasing  in  the  sunlight  over 
the  hedge  toward  the  crinkly  foam  edging  the  quiet 


326  BEYOND 

sea  till  they  were  but  fluttering  white  specks  in  the 
blue. 

But  when  she  had  rubbed  her  cheeks  and  smoothed 
her  face,  she  was  no  nearer  to  feeling  that  she  could 
trust  herself.  What  had  happened  in  her  was  too 
violent,  too  sweet,  too  terrifying.  And  going  up  to 
him  she  said: 

"Let  me  go  home  now  by  myself.  Please,  let  me 
go,  dear.     To-morrow!" 

Summerhay  looked  up. 

"Whatever  you  wish,  Gyp — always!" 

He  pressed  her  hand  against  his  cheek,  then  let  it 
go,  and,  folding  his  arms  tight,  resumed  his  mean- 
ingless stare  at  the  sea.  Gyp  turned  away.  She 
crossed  back  to  the  other  side  of  the  stream,  but  did 
not  go  in  for  a  long  time,  sitting  in  the  pine  wood 
till  the  evening  gathered  and  the  stars  crept  out  in 
a  sky  of  that  mauve-blue  which  the  psychic  say  is 
the  soul-garment  colour  of  the  good. 

Late  that  night,  when  she  had  finished  brushing 
her  hair,  she  opened  her  window  and  stepped  out 
on  to  the  verandah.  How  warm !  How  still !  Not 
a  sound  from  the  sleeping  house — not  a  breath  of 
wind !  Her  face,  framed  in  her  hair,  her  hands,  and 
all  her  body,  felt  as  if  on  fire.  The  moon  behind  the 
pine-tree  branches  was  filling  every  cranny  of  her 
brain  with  wakefulness.  The  soft  shiver  of  the 
wellnigh  surfless  sea  on  a  rising  tide,  rose,  fell,  rose, 
fell.  The  sand  cliff  shone  like  a  bank  of  snow. 
And  all  was  inhabited,  as  a  moonlit  night  is  wont 
to  be,  by  a  magical  Presence.     A  big  moth  went 


BEYOND  327 

past  her  face,  so  close  that  she  felt  the  flutter  of  its 
wings.  A  little  night  beast  somewhere  was  scrut- 
tling  in  bushes  or  the  sand.  Suddenly,  across  the 
wan  grass  the  shadow  of  the  pine-trunk  moved.  It 
moved — ever  so  little — moved!  And,  petrified — 
Gyp  stared.  There,  joined  to  the  trunk,  Summer- 
hay  was  standing,  his  face  just  visible  against  the 
stem,  the  moonlight  on  one  cheek,  a  hand  shading 
his  eyes.  He  moved  that  hand,  held  it  out  in  sup- 
plication. For  long — how  long — Gyp  did  not  stir, 
looking  straight  at  that  beseeching  figure.  Then, 
with  a  feeling  she  had  never  known,  she  saw  him 
coming.  He  came  up  to  the  verandah  and  stood 
looking  up  at  her.  She  could  see  all  the  workings 
of  his  face — passion,  reverence,  above  all  amaze- 
ment; and  she  heard  his  awed  whisper: 

"Is  it  you,   Gyp?    Really  you?    You  look  so 
young — so  young ! " 


VII 

From  the  moment  of  surrender,  Gyp  passed 
straight  into  a  state  the  more  enchanted  because  she 
had  never  believed  in  it,  had  never  thought  that  she 
could  love  as  she  now  loved.  Days  and  nights  went 
by  in  a  sort  of  dream,  and  when  Summerhay  was 
not  with  her,  she  was  simply  waiting  with  a  smile  on 
her  lips  for  the  next  hour  of  meeting.  Just  as  she 
had  never  felt  it  possible  to  admit  the  world  into 
the  secrets  of  her  married  life,  so,  now  she  did  not 
consider  the  world  at  all.  Only  the  thought  of  her 
father  weighed  on  her  conscience.  He  was  back  in 
town.  And  she  felt  that  she  must  tell  him.  When 
Summerhay  heard  this  he  only  said:  "All  right, 
Gyp,  whatever  you  think  best." 

And  two  days  before  her  month  at  the  bungalow 
was  up,  she  went,  leaving  Betty  and  little  Gyp  to 
follow  on  the  last  day.  Winton,  pale  and  some- 
what languid,  as  men  are  when  they  have  been 
cured,  found  her  when  he  came  in  from  the  club. 
She  had  put  on  evening  dress,  and  above  the  pallor 
of  her  shoulders,  her  sunwarmed  face  and  throat 
had  almost  the  colour  of  a  nectarine.  He  had  never 
seen  her  look  like  that,  never  seen  her  eyes  so  full 
of  light.  And  he  uttered  a  quiet  grunt  of  satisfac- 
tion. ""It  was  as  if  a  flower,  which  he  had  last  seen 
in  close  and  elegant  shape,  had  bloomed  in  full  per- 
fection.    She  did  not  meet  his  gaze  quite  steadily 

328 


BEYOND  320 

and  all  that  evening  kept  putting  her  confession  off 
and  off.  It  was  not  easy — far  from  easy.  At  last, 
when  he  was  smoking  his  "go-to-bed"  cigarette,  she 
took  a  cushion  and  sank  down  on  it  beside  his  chair, 
leaning  against  his  knee,  where  her  face  was  hidden 
from  him,  as  on  that  day  after  her  first  ball,  when 
she  had  listened  to  his  confession.     And  she  began: 

"Dad,  do  you  remember  my  saying  once  that  I 
didn't  understand  what  you  and  my  mother  felt 
for  each  other?"  Win  ton  did  not  speak;  misgiving 
had  taken  possession  of  him.  Gyp  went  on:  "I 
know  now  how  one  would  rather  die  than  give  some- 
one up." 

Win  ton  drew  his  breath  in  sharply: 

"Who?     Summerhay?" 

"Yes;  I  used  to  think  I  should  never  be  in  love, 
but  you  knew  better." 

Better ! 

In  disconsolate  silence,  "he  thought  rapidly: 
'Wliat's  to  be  done?  What  can  I  do?  Get  her  a 
divorce  ? ' 

Perhaps  because  of  the  ring  in  her  voice,  or  the 
sheer  seriousness  of  the  position,  he  did  not  feel 
resentment  as  when  he  lost  her  to  Fiorsen.  Love ! 
A  passion  such  as  had  overtaken  her  mother  and 
himself !  And  this  young  man  ?  A  decent  fellow,  a 
good  rider — comprehensible !  Ah,  if  the  course  had 
only  been  clear !  He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  said: 

"Well,  Gyp,  we  must  go  for  the  divorce,  then, 
after  all." 


33Q  BEYOND 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It's  too  late.  Let  him  divorce  me,  if  he  only 
will!" 

Winton  needed  all  his  self-control  at  that  moment. 
Too  late?  Already!  Sudden  recollection  that  he 
had  not  the  right  to  say  a  word  alone  kept  him 
silent.     Gyp  went  on: 

"I  love  him,  with  every  bit  of  me.  I  don't  care 
what  comes — whether  it's  open  or  secret.  I  don't 
care  what  anybody  thinks." 

She  had  turned  round  now,  and  if  Winton  had 
doubt  of  her  feeling,  he  lost  it.  This  was  a  Gyp  he 
had  never  seen !  A  glowing,  soft,  quick-breathing 
creature,  with  just  that  lithe  watchtful  look  of 
the  mother  cat  or  lioness  whose  whejps  are  threat- 
ened. There  flashed  through  him  a  recollection 
of  how,  as  a  child,  with  face  very  tense,  she 
would  ride  at  fences  that  were  too  big.  At  last  he 
said: 

"I'm  sorry  you  didn't  tell  me  sooner." 

"I  couldn't.  I  didn't  know.  Oh,  Dad,  I'm  al- 
ways hurting  you !    Forgive  me!" 

She  was  pressing  his  hand  to  her  cheek  that  felt 
burning  hot.  And  he  thought:  "Forgive!  Of 
course  I  forgive.  That's  not  the  point;  the  point 
is " 

And  a  vision  of  his  loved  one  talked  about,  be- 
smirched, bandied  from  mouth  to  mouth,  or  else — 
for  her  what  there  had  been  for  him,  a  hole-and- 
corner  life,  an  underground  existence  of  stealthy 
meetings  kept  dark,  above  all  from  her  own  little 


BEYOND  331 

daughter.  Ah,  not  that!  And  yet — was  not  even 
that  better  than  the  other,  which  revolted  to  the 
soul  his  fastidious  pride  in  her,  roused  in  advance 
his  fury  against  tongues  that  would  wag,  and  eyes 
that  would  wink  or  be  uplifted  in  righteousness? 
Summerhay's  world  was  more  or  less  his  world; 
scandal,  which — like  all  parasitic  growths — flourishes 
in  enclosed  spaces,  would  have  every  chance.  And, 
at  once,  his  brain  began  to  search,  steely  and  quick, 
for  some  way  out;  and  the  expression  as  when  a 
fox  broke  covert,  came  on  his  face. 

"Nobody  knows,  Gyp?" 

"No;  nobody." 

That  was  something!  With  an  irritation  that 
rose  from  his  very  soul,  he  muttered: 

"I  can't  stand  it  that  you  should  suffer,  and  that 
fellow  Fiorsen  go  scot-free.  Can  you  give  up  seeing 
Summerhay  while  we  get  you  a  divorce  ?  We  might 
do  it,  if  no  one  knows.  I  think  you  owe  it  to  me, 
Gyp." 

Gyp  got  up  and  stood  by  the  window  a  long  time 
without  answering.  Winton  watched  her  face.  At 
last  she  said: 

"I  couldn't.  We  might  stop  seeing  each  other; 
it  isn't  that.  It's  what  I  should  feel.  I  shouldn't 
respect  myself  after;  I  should  feel  so  mean.  Oh, 
Dad,  don't  you  see?  He  really  loved  me  in  his 
way.  And  to  pretend !  To  make  out  a  case  for 
myself,  tell  about  Daphne  Wing,  about  his  drink- 
ing, and  baby;  pretend  that  I  wanted  him  to  love 
me,  when  I  got  to  hate  it  and  didn't  care  really 


332  BEYOND 

whether  he  was  faithful  or  not — and  knowing  all  the 
while  that  I've  been  everything  to  someone  else ! 
I  couldn't.  I'd  much  rather  let  him  know,  and  ask 
him  to  divorce  me." 

Win  ton  replied: 

"And  suppose  he  won't?" 

"Then  my  mind  would  be  clear,  anyway;  and  we 
would  take  what  we  could." 

"And  little  Gyp?" 

Staring  before  her  as  if  trying  to  see  into  the 
future,  she  said  slowly: 

"Some  day,  she'll  understand,  as  I  do.  Or  per- 
haps it  will  be  all  over  before  she  knows.  Does 
happiness  ever  last?" 

And,  going  up  to  him,  she  bent  over,  kissed  his 
forehead,  and  went  out.  The  warmth  from  her  lips, 
and  the  scent  of  her  remained  with  Winton  like  a 
sensation  wafted  from  the  past. 

Was  there  then  nothing  to  be  done — nothing? 
Men  of  his  stamp  do  not,  as  a  general  thing,  see 
very  deep  even  into  those  who  are  nearest  to  them; 
but  to-night  he  saw  his  daughter's  nature  more 
fully  perhaps  than  ever  before.  No  use  to  impor- 
tune her  to  act  against  her  instincts — not  a  bit  of 
use  !  And  yet — how  to  sit  and  watch  it  all — watch 
his  own  passion  with  its  ecstasy  and  its  heart-burn- 
ings re-enacted  with  her — perhaps  for  many  years? 
And  the  old  vulgar  saying  passed  through  his  mind: 
"What's  bred  in  the  bone  will  come  out  in  the 
meat."  Now  she  had  given,  she  would  give  with 
both  hands — beyond  measure — beyond ! — as  he  him- 


BEYOND  S33 

self,  as  her  mother  had  given !  Ah,  well,  she  was 
better  off  than  his  own  loved  one  had  been.  One 
must  not  go  ahead  of  trouble,  or  cry  over  spilled 
milk' 


vin 

Gyp  had  a  wakeful  night.  The  question  she  her- 
self had  raised,  of  telling  Fiorsen,  kept  her  thoughts 
in  turmoil.  Was  he  likely  to  divorce  her  if  she  did  ? 
His  contempt  for  what  he  called  'these  bourgeois 
morals,'  his  instability,  the  very  unpleasantness, 
and  offence  to  his  vanity — all  this  would  prevent 
him.  No;  he  would  not  divorce  her,  she  was  sure, 
unless  by  any  chance  he  wanted  legal  freedom,  and 
that  was  quite  unlikely.  What  then  would  be 
gained?  Ease  for  her  conscience?  But  had  she 
any  right  to  ease  her  conscience  if  it  brought  harm 
to  her  lover?  And  was  it  not  ridiculous  to  think 
of  conscience  in  regard  to  one  who,  within  a  year  of 
marriage,  had  taken  to  himself  a  mistress,  and  not 
even  spared  the  home  paid  for  and  supported  by 
his  wife?  No;  if  she  told  Fiorsen,  it  would  only  be 
to  salve  her  pride,  wounded  by  doing  what  she  did 
not  avow.  Besides,  where  was  he?  At  the  other 
end  of  the  world  for  all  she  knew. 

She  came  down  to  breakfast,  dark  under  the  eyes 
and  no  whit  advanced  toward  decision.  Neither  of 
them  mentioned  their  last  night's  talk,  and  Gyp 
went  back  to  her  room  to  busy  herself  with  dress, 
after  those  weeks  away.  It  was  past  noon  when, 
at  a  muffled  knock,  she  found  Markey  outside  her 
door. 

334 


BEYOND  335 

"Mr.  Fiorsen,  m'm." 

Gyp  beckoned  him  in,  and  closed  the  door. 

"In  the  hall,  m'm — slipped  in  when  I  answered 
the  bell;  short  of  shoving,  I  couldn't  keep  him  out." 

Gyp  stood  full  half  a  minute  before  she  said: 

"Is  my  father  in?" 

"No,  m'm;  the  major's  gone  to  the  fencin'-club." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"Said  I  would  see.  So  far  as  I  was  aware,  no- 
body was  in.     Shall  I  have  a  try  to  shift  him,  m'm  ?  " 

With  a  faint  smile  Gyp  shook  her  head. 

"Say  no  one  can  see  him." 

Markey's  woodcock  eyes,  under  their  thin,  dark, 
twisting  brows,  fastened  on  her  dolefully;  he  opened 
the  door  to  go.  Fiorsen  was  standing  there,  and, 
with  a  quick  movement,  came  in.  She  saw  Markey 
raise  his  arms  as  if  to  catch  him  round  the  waist, 
and  said  quietly: 

"Markey — wait  outside,  please." 

When  the  door  was  shut,  she  retreated  against 
her  dressing-table  and  stood  gazing  at  her  husband, 
while  her  heart  throbbed  as  if  it  would  leap  through 
its  coverings. 

He  had  grown  a  short  beard,  his  cheeks  seemed  a 
little  fatter,  and  his  eyes  surely  more  green;  other- 
wise, he  looked  much  as  she  remembered  him.  And 
the  first  thought  that  passed  through  her  was:  'Why 
did  I  ever  pity  him  ?  He'll  never  fret  or  drink  him- 
self to  death — he's  got  enough  vitality  for  twenty 
men.' 

His  face,  which  had  worn  a  fixed,  nervous  smile, 


336  BEYOND 

grew  suddenly  grave  as  her  own,  and  his  eyes  roved 
round  the  room  in  the  old  half-fierce,  half-furtive 
way. 

"Well,  Gyp,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  shook  a  lit- 
tle: "At  last!    Won't  you  kiss  me?" 

The  question  seemed  to  Gyp  idiotic;  and  sud- 
denly she  felt  quite  cool. 

"If  you  want  to  speak  to  my  father,  you  must 
come  later;  he's  out." 

Fiorsen  gave  one  of  his  fierce  shrugs. 

"Is  it  likely?  Look,  Gyp !  I  returned  from  Rus- 
sia yesterday.  I  was  a  great  success,  made  a  lot  of 
money  out  there.  Come  back  to  me!  I  will  be 
good — I  swear  it!  Now  I  have  seen  you  again,  I 
can't  be  without  you.  Ah,  Gyp,  come  back  to  me ! 
And  see  how  good  I  will  be.  I  will  take  you  abroad, 
you  and  the  bambina.  We  will  go  to  Rome — any- 
where you  like — live  how  you  like.  Only  come 
back  to  me!" 

Gyp  answered  stonily: 

"You  are  talking  nonsense." 

"  Gyp,  I  swear  to  you  I  have  not  seen  a  woman — 
not  one  fit  to  put  beside  you.  Oh,  Gyp,  be  good  to 
me  once  more.  This  time  I  will  not  fail.  Try  me ! 
Try  me,  my  Gyp ! " 

Only  at  this  moment  of  his  pleading,  whose  tragic 
tones  seemed  to  her  both  false  and  childish,  did  Gyp 
realize  the  strength  of  the  new'feeling  in  her  heart. 
And  the  more  that  feeling  throbbed  within  her,  the 
harder  her  face  and  her  voice  grew.     She  said: 

"If  that  is  all  you  came  to  say — please  go.       I 


BEYOND  337 

will  never  come  back  to  you.  Once  for  all,  under- 
stand, please." 

The  silence  in  which  he  received  her  words,  and 
his  expression,  impressed  her  far  more  than  his 
appeal;  with  one  of  his  stealthy  movements  he  came 
quite  close,  and,  putting  his  face  forward  till  it 
almost  touched  her,  said: 

"You  are  my  wife.  I  want  you  back.  I  must 
have  you  back.  If  you  do  not  come,  I  will  kill 
either  you  or  myself." 

And  suddenly  she  felt  his  arms  knotted  behind 
her  back,  crushing  her  to  him.  She  stifled  a  scream; 
then,  very  swiftly,  took  a  resolve,  and,  rigid  in  his 
arms,  said: 

"Let  go;  you  hurt  me.  Sit  down  quietly.  I  will 
tell  you  something." 

The  tone  of  her  voice  made  him  loosen  his  grasp 
and  crane  back  to  see  her  face.  Gyp  detached  his 
arms  from  her  completely,  sat  down  on  an  old  oak 
chest,  and  motioned  him  to  the  window-seat.  Her 
heart  thumped  pitifully;  cold  waves  of  almost  phys- 
ical sickness  passed  through  and  through  her.  She 
had  smelt  brandy  in  his  breath  when  he  was  close 
to  her.  It  was  like  being  in  the  cage  of  a  wild 
beast;  it  was  like  being  with  a  madman!  The  re- 
membrance of  him  with  his  fingers  stretched  out 
like  claws  above  her  baby  was  so  vivid  at  that 
moment  that  she  could  scarcely  see  him  as  he  was, 
sitting  there  quietly,  waiting  for  what  she  was  going 
to  say.     And  fixing  her  eyes  on  him,  she  said  softly : 

"You  say  you  love  me,  Gustav.     I  tried  to  love 


338  BEYOND 

you,  too,  but  I  never  could — never  from  the  first. 
I  tried  very  hard.  Surely  you  care  what  a  woman 
feels,  even  if  she  happens  to  be  your  wife." 

She  could  see  his  face  quiver;  and  she  went  on: 

"When  I  found  I  couldn't  love  you,  I  felt  I  had 
no  right  over  you.  I  didn't  stand  on  my  rights. 
Did  I?" 

Again  his  face  quivered,  and  again  she  hurried 
on: 

"But  you  wouldn't  expect  me  to  go  all  through 
my  life  without  ever  feeling  love — you  who've  felt 
it  so  many  times  ?  "  Then,  clasping  her  hands  tight, 
with  a  sort  of  wonder  at  herself,  she  murmured: 
"I  am  in  love.     I've  given  myself." 

He  made  a  queer,  whining  sound,  covering  his 
face.  And  the  beggar's  tag:.  "'Ave  a  feelin'  'eart, 
gentleman — 'ave  a  feelin'  'eart!"  passed  idiotically 
through  Gyp's  mind.  Would  he  get  up  and  strangle 
her  ?  Should  she  dash  to  the  door — escape  ?  For  a 
long,  miserable  moment,  she  watched  him  swaying 
on  the  window-seat,  with  his  face  covered.  Then, 
without  looking  at  her,  he  crammed  a  clenched  hand 
up  against  his  mouth,  and  rushed  out. 

Through  the  open  door,  Gyp  had  a  glimpse  of 
Markey's  motionless  figure,  coming  to  life  as  Fiorsen 
passed.  She  drew  a  long  breath,  locked  the  door, 
and  lay  down  on  her  bed.  Her  heart  beat  dread- 
fully. For  a  moment,  something  had  checked  his 
jealous  rage.  But  if  on  this  shock  he  began  to 
drink,  what  might  not  happen  ?  He  had  said  some- 
thing wild.     And  she  shuddered.     But  what  right 


BEYOND  339 

had  he  to  feel  jealousy  and  rage  against  her  ?  What 
right  ?  She  got  up  and  went  to  the  glass,  trembling, 
mechanically  tidying  her  hair.  Miraculous  that  she 
had  come  through  unscathed ! 

Her  thoughts  flew  to  Summerhay.  They  were  to 
meet  at  three  o'clock  by  the  seat  in  St.  James's 
Park.  But  all  was  different,  now;  difficult  and 
dangerous!  She  must  wait,  take  counsel  with  her 
father.  And  yet  if  she  did  not  keep  that  tryst,  how 
anxious  he  would  be — thinking  that  all  sorts  of 
things  had  happened  to  her;  thinking  perhaps — oh, 
foolish ! — that  she  had  forgotten,  or  even  repented 
of  her  love.  What  would  she  herself  think,  if  he 
were  to  fail  her  at  their  first  tryst  after  those  days 
of  bliss?  Certainly  that  he  had  changed  his  mind, 
seen  she  was  not  worth  it,  seen  that  a  woman  who 
could  give  herself  so  soon,  so  easily,  was  one  to  whom 
he  could  not  sacrifice  his  life. 

In  this  cruel  uncertainty,  she  spent  the  next  two 
hours,  till  it  was  nearly  three.  If  she  did  not  go 
out,  he  would  come  on  to  Bury  Street,  and  that 
would  be  still  more  dangerous.  She  put  on  her  hat 
and  walked  swiftly  towards  St.  James's  Palace.  Once 
sure  that  she  was  not  being  followed,  her  courage 
rose,  and  she  passed  rapidly  down  toward  the  water. 
She  was  ten  minutes  late,  and  seeing  him  there, 
walking  up  and  down,  turning  his  head  every  few 
seconds  so  as  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  bench,  she  felt 
almost  lightheaded  from  joy.  When  they  had 
greeted  with  that  pathetic  casualness  of  lovers  which 
deceives  so  few,  they  walked  on  together  past  Buck- 


340  BEYOND 

ingham  Palace,  up  into  the  Green  Park,  beneath  the 
trees.  During  this  progress,  she  told  him  about  her 
father;  but  only  when  they  were  seated  in  that 
comparative  refuge,  and  his  hand  was  holding  hers 
under  cover  of  the  sunshade  that  lay  across  her 
knee,  did  she  speak  of  Fiorsen. 

He  tightened  his  grasp  of  her  hand;  then,  suddenly 
dropping  it,  said: 

"Did  he  touch  you,  Gyp?" 

Gyp  heard  that  question  with  a  shock.  Touch 
her !    Yes !    But  what  did  it  matter  ? 

He  made  a  little  shuddering  sound;  and,  wonder- 
ing, mournful,  she  looked  at  him.  His  hands  and 
teeth  were  clenched.     She  said  softly: 

"Bryan!    Don't!    I  wouldn't  let  him  kiss  me." 

He  seemed  to  have  to  force  his  eyes  to  look  at  her. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said,  and,  staring  before  him, 
bit  his  nails. 

Gyp  sat  motionless,  cut  to  the  heart.  She  was 
soiled,  and  spoiled  for  him!  Of  course!  And  yet 
a  sense  of  injustice  burned  in  her.  Her  heart  had 
never  been  touched;  it  was  his  utterly.  But  that 
was  not  enough  for  a  man — he  wanted  an  untouched 
body,  too.  That  she  could  not  give;  he  should  have 
thought  of  that  sooner,  instead  of  only  now.  And, 
miserably,  she,  too,  stared  before  her,  and  her  face 
hardened. 

A  little  boy  came  and  stood  still  in  front  of  them, 
regarding  her  with  round,  unmoving  eyes.  She  was 
conscious  of  a  slice  of  bread  and  jam  in  his  hand, 
and  that  his  mouth  and  cheeks  were  smeared  with 


BEYOND  341 

red.  A  woman  called  out:  "Jacky!  Come  on, 
now!"  and  he  was  hauled  away,  still  looking  back, 
and  holding  out  his  bread  and  jam  as  though  offer- 
ing her  a  bite.  She  felt  Summerhay's  arm  slipping 
round  her. 

"It's  over,  darling.  Never  again — I  promise 
you!" 

Ah,  he  might  promise — might  even  keep  that 
promise.  But  he  would  suffer,  always  suffer,  think- 
ing of  that  other.     And  she  said: 

"You  can  only  have  me  as  I  am,  Bryan.  I  can't 
make  myself  new  for  you;  I  wish  I  could — oh,  I 
wish  I  could!" 

"I  ought  to  have  cut  my  tongue  out  first !  Don't 
think  of  it !  Come  home  to  me  and  have  tea — 
there's  no  one  there.     Ah,  do,  Gyp — come!" 

He  took  her  hands  and  pulled  her  up.  And  all 
else  left  Gyp  but  the  joy  of  being  close  to  him,  going 
to  happiness. 


IX 

Fiorsen,  passing  Markey  like  a  blind  man,  made 
his  way  out  into  the  street,  but  had  not  gone  a 
hundred  yards  before  he  was  hurrying  back.  He 
had  left  his  hat.  The  servant,  still  standing  there, 
handed  him  that  wide-brimmed  object  and  closed 
the  door  in  his  face.  Once  more  he  moved  away, 
going  towards  Piccadilly.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
the  expression  on  Gyp's  face,  what  might  he  not 
have  done?  And,  mixed  with  sickening  jealousy, 
he  felt  a  sort  of  relief,  as  if  he  had  been  saved  from 
something  horrible.  So  she  had  never  loved  him! 
Never  at  all?  Impossible!  Impossible  that  a 
woman  on  whom  he  had  lavished  such  passion 
should  never  have  felt  passion  for  him — never  any ! 
Innumerable  images  of  her  passed  before  him — sur- 
rendering, always  surrendering.  It  could  not  all 
have  been  pretence!  He  was  not  a  common  man 
— she  herself  had  said  so;  he  had  charm — or,  other 
women  thought  so!  She  had  lied;  she  must  have 
lied,  to  excuse  herself ! 

He  went  into  a  cafe  and  asked  for  a  fine  cham- 
pagne. They  brought  him  a  carafe,  with  the  mea- 
sures marked.  He  sat  there  a  long  time.  When  he 
rose,  he  had  drunk  nine,  and  he  felt  better,  with  a 
kind  of  ferocity  that  was  pleasant  in  his  veins  and 
a  kind  of  nobility  that  was  pleasant  in  his  soul. 

342 


BEYOND  343 

Let  her  love,  and  be  happy  with  her  lover!  But 
let  him  get  his  fingers  on  that  fellow's  throat !  Let 
her  be  happy,  if  she  could  keep  her  lover  from  him ! 
And  suddenly,  he  stopped  in  his  tracks,  for  there 
on  a  sandwich-board  just  in  front  of  him  were  the 
words :  "  Daphne  Wing.  Pantheon.  Daphne  Wing. 
Plastic  Danseuse.  Poetry  of  Motion.  To-day  at 
three  o'clock.     Pantheon.     Daphne  Wing." 

Ah,  she  had  loved  him — little  Daphne!  It  was 
past  three.  Going  in,  he  took  his  place  in  the  stalls, 
close  to  the  stage,  and  stared  before  him,  with  a 
sort  of  bitter  amusement.  This  was  irony  indeed ! 
Ah — and  here  she  came!  A  Pierrette — in  short, 
diaphanous  muslin,  her  face  whitened  to  match  it; 
a  Pierrette  who  stood  slowly  spinning  on  her  toes, 
with  arms  raised  and  hands  joined  in  an  arch  above 
her  glistening  hair. 

Idiotic  pose!  Idiotic!  But  there  was  the  old 
expression  on  her  face,  limpid,  dovelike.  And  that 
something  of  the  divine  about  her  dancing  smote 
Fiorsen  through  all  the  sheer  imbecility  of  her  pos- 
turings.  Across  and  across  she  flitted,  pirouetting, 
caught  up  at  intervals  by  a  Pierrot  in  black  tights 
with  a  face  as  whitened  as  her  own,  held  upside 
down,  or  right  end  up  with  one  knee  bent  sideways, 
and  the  toe  of  a  foot  pressed  against  the  ankle  of 
the  other,  and  arms  arched  above  her.  Then,  with 
Pierrot's  hands  grasping  her  waist,  she  would  stand 
upon  one  toe  and  slowly  twiddle,  lifting  her  other 
leg  toward  the  roof,  while  the  trembling  of  her  form 
manifested  cunningly  to  all  how  hard  it  was;    then, 


344  BEYOND 

off  the  toe,  she  capered  out  to  the  wings,  and  ca- 
pered back,  wearing  on  her  face  that  divine,  lost, 
dovelike  look,  while  her  perfect  legs  gleamed  white 
up  to  the  very  thigh-joint.  Yes;  on  the  stage  she 
was  adorable !  And  raising  his  hands  high,  Fiorsen 
clapped  and  called  out:  "Brava!"  He  marked  the 
sudden  roundness  of  her  eyes,  a  tiny  start — no  more. 
She  had  seen  him.  'Ah!  Some  don't  forget  me!' 
he  thought. 

And  now  she  came  on  for  her  second  dance, 
assisted  this  time  only  by  her  own  image  reflected 
in  a  little  weedy  pool  about  the  middle  of  the  stage. 
From  the  programme  Fiorsen  read,  "Ophelia's  last 
dance,"  and  again  he  grinned.  In  a  clinging  sea- 
green  fgown,  cut  here  and  there  to  show  her  inevi- 
table legs,  with  marguerites  and  corn-flowers  in,  her 
unbound  hair,  she  circled  her  own  reflection,  lan- 
guid, pale,  desolate;  then  slowly  gaining  the  aban- 
don needful  to  a  full  display,  danced  with  frenzy 
till,  in  a  gleam  of  limelight,  she  sank  into  the  appar- 
ent water  and  floated  among  paper  water-lilies  on 
her  back.  Lovely  she  looked  there,  with  her  eyes 
still  open,  her  lips  parted,  her  hair  trailing  behind. 
And  again  Fiorsen  raised  his  hands  high  to  clap, 
and  again  called  out:  'Brava!'  But  the  curtain 
fell,  and  Ophelia  did  not  reappear.  Was  it  the  sight 
of  him,  or  was  she  preserving  the  illusion  that 
she  was  drowned?  That  "arty"  touch  would  be 
just  like  her. 

Averting  his  eyes  from  two  comedians  in  calico, 
beating  each  other  about  the  body,  he  rose  with  an 


BEYOND  345 

audible  "Pish!"  and  made  his  way  out.  He 
stopped  in  the  street  to  scribble  on  his  card,  "Will 
you  see  me? — G.  F."  and  took  it  round  to  the 
stage-door.     The  answer  came  back: 

"Miss  Wing  will  see  you  in  a  minute,  sir." 
And  leaning  against  the  distempered  wall  of  the 
draughty  corridor,  a  queer  smile  on  his  face,  Fiorsen 
wondered  why  the  devil  he  was  there,  and  what  the 
devil  she  would  say. 

When  he  was  admitted,  she  was  standing  with 
her  hat  on,  while  her  "dresser"  buttoned  her  pat- 
ent-leather shoes.  Holding  out  her  hand  above  the 
woman's  back,  she  said: 

"Oh,  Mr.  Fiorsen,  how  do  you  do?" 
Fiorsen  took  the  little  moist  hand;  and  his  eyes 
passed  over  her,  avoiding  a  direct  meeting  with  her 
eyes.     He    received    an    impression    of    something 
harder,  more  self-possessed,  than  he  remembered. 
Her  face  was  the  same,  yet  not  the  same;  only  her 
perfect,  supple  little  body  was  as  it  had  been.     The 
dresser    rose,  murmured:  "Good-afternoon,  miss," 
and  went. 
Daphne  Wing  smiled  faintly. 
"I  haven't  seen  you  for  a  long  time,  have  I?" 
"No;  I've  been  abroad.    You  dance  as  beauti- 
fully as  ever." 

"Oh,  yes;  it  hasn't  hurt  my  dancing." 

With  an  effort,  he  looked  her  in  the  face.    Was 

this  really  the  same  girl  who  had  clung  to  him, 

cloyed  him  with  her  kisses,  her  tears,  her  appeals 

for  love — just  a  little  love?    Ah,  but  she  was  more 


346  BEYOND 

desirable,  much  more  desirable  than  he  had  remem- 
bered!    And  he  said: 

"Give  me  a  kiss,  little  Daphne!" 

Daphne  Wing  did  not  stir;  her  white  teeth  rested 
on  her  lower  lip;  she  said: 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you!    How  is  Mrs.  Fiorsen?" 

Fiorsen  turned  abruptly. 

"There  is  none." 

"Oh,  has  she  divorced  you?" 

"No.     Stop  talking  of  her;  stop  talking,  I  say!" 

Daphne  Wing,  still  motionless  in  the  centre  of 
her  little  crowded  dressing-room,  said,  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  voice: 

"You  are  polite,  aren't  you?  It's  funny;  I  can't 
tell  whether  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I  had  a  bad  time, 
you  know;  and  Mrs.  Fiorsen  was  an  angel.  Why 
do  you  come  to  see  me  now?" 

Exactly !  Why  had  he  come  ?  The  thought 
flashed  through  him:  'She'll  help  me  to  forget.' 
And  he  said: 

"I  was  a  great  brute  to  you,  Daphne.  I  came  to 
make  up,  if  I  can." 

"Oh,  no;  you  can't  make  up — thank  you!"  A 
shudder  ran  through  her,  and  she  began  drawing 
on  her  gloves.  "You  taught  me  a  lot,  you  know. 
I  ought  to  be  quite  grateful.  Oh,  you've  grown  a 
little  beard!  D'you  think  that  improves  you?  It 
makes  you  look  rather  like  Mephistopheles,  I 
think." 

Fiorsen  stared  fixedly  at  that  perfectly  shaped 
face,  where  a  faint,  underdone  pink  mingled  with 


BEYOND  347 

the  fairness  of  the  skin.  Was  she  mocking  him? 
Impossible !     She  looked  too  matter  of  fact. 

"Where  do  you  live  now?"  he  said. 

"I'm  on  my  own,  in  a  studio.  You  can  come 
and  see  it,  if  you  like." 

"With  pleasure." 

"  Only,  you'd  better  understand.  I've  had  enough 
of  love." 

Fiorsen  grinned. 

"Even  for  another?"  he  said. 

Daphne  Wing  answered  calmly: 

"I  wish  you  would  treat  me  like  a  lady." 

Fiorsen  bit  his  lip,  and  bowed. 

"May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  giving  you  some 
tea?"  " 

"Yes,  thank  you;  I'm  very  hungry.  I  don't  eat 
lunch  on  matinee-days;  I  find  it  better  not.  Do 
you  like  my  Ophelia  dance?" 

"It's  artificial." 

"Yes,  it  is  artificial — it's  done  with  mirrors  and 
wire  netting,  you  know.  But  do  I  give  you  the 
illusion  of  being  mad ? "  Fiorsen  nodded.  "I'm  so 
glad.     Shall  we  go  ?    I  do  want  my  tea." 

She  turned  round,  scrutinized  herself  in  the  glass, 
touched  her  hat  with  both  hands,  revealing,  for  a 
second,  all  the  poised  beauty  of  her  figure,  took  a 
little  bag  from  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  said: 

"I  think,  if  you  don't  mind  going  on,  it's  less 
conspicuous.  I'll  meet  you  at  RuffePs — they  have 
lovely  things  there.    Au  revoir." 

In  a  state  of  bewilderment,  irritation,  and  queer 


348  BEYOND 

meekness,  Fiorsen  passed  down  Coventry  Street, 
and  entering  the  empty  RufM's,  took  a  table  near 
the  window.  There  he  sat  staring  before  him,  for 
the  sudden  vision  of  Gyp  sitting  on  that  oaken 
chest,  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  had  blotted  the  girl 
clean  out.  The  attendant  coming  to  take  his  order, 
gazed  at  his  pale,  furious  face,  and  said  mechani- 
cally: 

"What  can  I  get  you,  please?" 

Looking  up,  Fiorsen  saw  Daphne  Wing  outside, 
gazing  at  the  cakes  in  the  window.     She  came  in. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are !  I  should  like  iced  coffee  and 
walnut  cake,  and  some  of  those  marzipan  sweets — 
oh,  and  some  whipped  cream  with  my  cake.  Do 
you  mind?"  And,  sitting  down,  she  fixed  her  eyes 
on  his  face  and  asked: 

"Where  have  you  been  abroad?" 

"Stockholm,  Budapest,  Moscow,  other  places." 

"How  perfect!  Do  you  think  I  should  make  a 
success  in  Budapest  or  Moscow?" 

"You  might;  you  are  English  enough." 

"Oh!    Do  you  think  I'm  very  English?" 

"Utterly.    Your  kind  of "    But  even  he  was 

not  quite  capable  of  finishing  that  sentence — "your 
kind  of  vulgarity  could  not  be  produced  anywhere 
else."    Daphne  Wing  finished  it  for  him: 

"My  kind  of  beauty?" 

Fiorsen  grinned  and  nodded. 

"Oh,  I  think  that's  the  nicest  thing  you  ever  said 
to  me !  Only,  of  course,  I  should  like  to  think  I'm 
more  of  the  Greek  type — pagan,  you  know." 


BEYOND  349 

She  fell  silent,  casting  her  eyes  down.  Her  profile 
at  that  moment,  against  the  light,  was  very  pure 
and  soft  in  line.    And  he  said: 

"I  suppose  you  hate  me,  little  Daphne?  You 
ought  to  hate  me." 

Daphne  Wing  looked  up;  her  round,  blue-grey 
eyes  passed  over  him  much  as  they  had  been  passing 
over  the  marzipan. 

"No;  I  don't  hate  you — now.  Of  course,  if  I 
had  any  love  left  for  you,  I  should.  Oh,  isn't  that 
Irish  ?  But  one  can  think  anybody  a  rotter  without 
hatingthem,  can't  one?" 

Fiorsen  bit  his  lips. 

"So  you  think  me  a  'rotter'?" 

Daphne  Wing's  eyes  grew  rounder. 

"But  aren't  you?  You  couldn't  be  anything  else 
— could  you? — with  the  sort  of  things  you  did." 

"And  yet  you  don't  mind  having  tea  with  me?" 

Daphne  Wing,  who  had  begun  to  eat  and  drink, 
said  with  her  mouth  full: 

"You  see,  I'm  independent  now,  and  I  know  life. 
That  makes  you  harmless." 

Fiorsen  stretched  out  his  hand  and  seized  hers 
just  where  her  little  warm  pulse  was  beating  very 
steadily.  She  looked  at  it,  changed  her  fork  over, 
and  went  on  eating  with  the  other  hand.  Fiorsen 
drew  his  hand  away  as  if  he  had  been  stung. 

"Ah,  you  have  changed — that  is  certain!" 

"Yes;  you  wouldn't  expect  anything  else,  would 
you?  You  see,  one  doesn't  go  through  that  for 
nothing.     I  think  I  was  a  dreadful  little  fool — " 


350  BEYOND 

She  stopped,  with  her  spoon  on  its  way  to  her  mouth 

— "and  yet " 

'I  love  you  still,  little  Daphne." 

She  slowly  turned  her  head  toward  him,  and  a 
faint  sigh  escaped  her. 

"Once  I  would  have  given  a  lot  to  hear  that." 

And  turning  her  head  away  again,  she  picked  a 
large  walnut  out  of  her  cake  and  put  it  in  her  mouth. 

"Are  you  coming  to  see  my  studio?  I've  got  it 
rather  nice  and  new.  I'm  making  twenty-five  a 
week;  my  next  engagement,  I'm  going  to  get  thirty. 
I  should  like  Mrs.  Fiorsen  to  know —  Oh,  I  for- 
got; you  don't  like  me  to  speak  of  her!  Why  not? 
I  wish  you'd  tell  me!"  Gazing,  as  the  attendant 
had,  at  his  furious  face,  she  went  on :  "I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  but  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid  of  you  now.  I 
used  to  be.  Oh,  how  is  Count  Rosek?  Is  he  as 
pale  as  ever?  Aren't  you  going  to  have  anything 
more?  You've  had  hardly  anything.  D'you  know 
what  I  should  like — a  chocolate  eclair  and  a  rasp- 
berry ice-cream  soda  with  a  slice  of  tangerine  in  it." 

When  she  had  slowly  sucked  up  that  beverage, 
prodding  the  slice  of  tangerine  with  her  straws,  they 
went  out  and  took  a  cab.  On  that  journey  to  her 
studio,  Fiorsen  tried  to  possess  himself  of  her  hand, 
but,  folding  her  arms  across  her  chest,  she  said 
quietly : 

"It's  very  bad  manners  to  take  advantage  of 
cabs."  And,  withdrawing  sullenly  into  his  corner, 
he  watched  her  askance.  Was  she  playing  with 
him?     Or  had  she  really  ceased  to  care  the  snap  of 


BEYOND  351 

a  finger?  It  seemed  incredible.  The  cab,  which 
had  been  threading  the  maze  of  the  Soho  streets, 
stopped.  Daphne  Wing  alighted,  proceeded  down 
a  narrow  passage  to  a  green  door  on  the  right,  and, 
opening  it  with  a  latch-key,  paused  to  say: 

"I  like  it's  being  in  a  little  sordid  street — it  takes 
away  all  amateurishness.  It  wasn't  a  studio,  of 
course;  it  was  the  back  part  of  a  paper-maker's. 
Any  space  conquered  for  art  is  something,  isn't  it?" 
She  led  the  way  up  a  few  green-carpeted  stairs,  into 
a  large  room  with  a  skylight,  whose  walls  were  cov- 
ered in  Japanese  silk  the  colour  of  yellow  azaleas. 
Here  she  stood  for  a  minute  without  speaking,  as 
though  lost  in  the  beauty  of  her  home:  then,  point- 
ing to  the  walls,  she  said: 

"It  took  me  ages,  I  did  it  all  myself.  And  look 
at  my  little  Japanese  trees;  aren't  they  dickies?" 
Six  little  dark  abortions  of  trees  were  arranged 
scrupulously  on  a  lofty  window-sill,  whence  the  sky- 
light sloped.  She  added  suddenly:  "I  think  Count 
Rosek  would  like  this  room.  There's  something 
bizarre  about  it,  isn't  there?  I  wanted  to  surround 
myself  with  that,  you  know — to  get  the  bizarre  note 
into  my  work.  It's  so  important  nowadays.  But 
through  there  I've  got  a  bedroom  and  a  bathroom 
and  a  little  kitchen  with  everything  to  hand,  all 
quite  domestic;  and  hot  water  always  on.  My 
people  are  so  funny  about  this  room.  They  come 
sometimes,  and  stand  about.  But  they  can't  get 
used  to  the  neighbourhood;  of  course  it  is  sordid, 
but  I  think  an  artist  ought  to  be  superior  to  that." 


352  BEYOND 

Suddenly  touched,  Fiorsen  answered  gently: 

"Yes,  little  Daphne." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  another  tiny  sigh  escaped 
her. 

"Why  did  you  treat  me  like  you  did?"  she  said. 
"It's  such  a  pity,  because  now  I  can't  feel  anything 
at  all."  And  turning,  she  suddenly  passed  the  back 
of  her  hand  across  her  eyes.  Really  moved  by  that, 
Fiorsen  went  towards  her,  but  she  had  turned  round 
again,  and  putting  out  her  hand  to  keep  him  off, 
stood  shaking  her  head,  with  half  a  tear  glistening 
on  her  eyelashes. 

"Please  sit  down  on  the  divan,"  she  said.  "Will 
you  smoke?  These  are  Russians."  And  she  took 
a  white  box  of  pink-coloured  cigarettes  from  a  little 
golden  birchwood  table.  "I  have  everything  Rus- 
sian and  Japanese  so  far  as  I  can;  I  think  they  help 
more  than  anything  with  atmosphere.  I've  got  a 
balalaika;  you  can't  play  on  it,  can  you?  What  a 
pity !  If  only  I  had  a  violin !  I  should  have  liked 
to  hear  you  play  again."  She  clasped  her  hands: 
"Do  you  remember  when  I  danced  to  you  before  the 
fire?" 

Fiorsen  remembered  only  too  well.  The  pink 
cigarette  trembled  in  his  fingers,  and  he  said  rather 
hoarsely : 

"Dance  to  me  now,  Daphne!" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  trust  you  a  yard.  Nobody  would — 
would  they?" 

Fiorsen  started  up. 


BEYOND  353 

"Then  why  did  you  ask  me  here?  What  are 
you  playing  at,  you  little — "  At  sight  of  her 
round,  unmoving  eyes,  he  stopped.  She  said 
calmly: 

"I  thought  you'd  like  to  see  that  I'd  mastered  my 
fate — that's  all.  But,  of  course,  if  you  don't,  you 
needn't  stop." 

Fiorsen  sank  back  on  the  divan.  A  conviction 
that  everything  she  said  was  literal  had  begun  slowly 
to  sink  into  him.  And  taking  a  long  pull  at  that 
pink  cigarette  he  purled  the  smoke  out  with  a  laugh. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"I  was  thinking,  little  Daphne,  that  you  are  as 
great  an  egoist  as  I." 

"I  want  to  be.     It's  the  only  thing,  isn't  it?" 

Fiorsen  laughed  again. 

"You  needn't  worry.     You  always  were." 

She  had  seated  herself  on  an  Indian  stool  covered 
with  a  bit  of  Turkish  embroidery,  and,  joining  her 
hands  on  her  lap,  answered  gravely: 

"No;  I  think  I  wasn't,  while  I  loved  you.  But  it 
didn't  pay,  did  it?" 

Fiorsen  stared  at  her. 

"It  has  made  a  woman  of  you,  Daphne.  Your 
face  is  different.  Your  mouth  is  prettier  for  my 
kisses — or  the  want  of  them.  All  over,  you  are 
prettier."  Pink  came  up  in  Daphne  Wing's  cheeks. 
And,  encouraged  by  that  flush,  he  went  on  warmly: 
"If  you  loved  me  now,  I  should  not  tire  of  you. 
Oh,  you  can  believe  me!    I " 

She  shook  her  head. 


354  BEYOND 

"We  won't  talk  about  love,  will  we?  Did  you 
have  a  big  triumph  in  Moscow  and  St.  Petersburg? 
It  must  be  wonderful  to  have  really  great  triumphs ! " 

Fiorsen  answered  gloomily: 

"Triumphs?     I  made  a  lot  of  money." 

Daphne  Wing  purred: 

"Oh,  I  expect  you're  very  happy." 

Did  she  mean  to  be  ironic? 

"I'm  miserable." 

He  got  up  and  went  towards  her.  She  looked  up 
in  his  face. 

"I'm  sorry  if  you're  miserable.  I  know  what  it 
feels  like."   ' 

"You  can  help  me  not  to  be.  Little  Daphne,  you 
can  help  me  to  forget."  He  had  stopped,  and  put 
his  hands  on  her  shoulders.  Without  moving 
Daphne  Wing  answered: 

"I  suppose  it's  Mrs.  Fiorsen  you  want  to  forget, 
isn't  it?" 

"As  if  she  were  dead.  Ah,  let  it  all  be  as  it  was, 
Daphne !  You  have  grown  up;  you  are  a  woman, 
an  artist,  and  you " 

Daphne  Wing  had  turned  her  head  toward  the 
stairs. 

"That  was  the  bell,"  she  said.  "Suppose  it's  my 
people  ?  It's  just  their  time !  Oh,  isn't  that  awk- 
ward?" 

Fiorsen  dropped  his  grasp  of  her  and  recoiled 
against  the  wall.  There  with  his  head  touching  one 
of  the  little  Japanese  trees,  he  stood  biting  his  fin- 
gers.    She  was  already  moving  toward  the  door. 


BEYOND  355 

"My  mother's  got  a  key,  and  it's  no  good  putting 
you  anywhere,  because  she  always  has  a  good  look 
round.  But  perhaps  it  isn't  them.  Besides,  I'm 
not  afraid  now;  it  makes  a  wonderful  difference 
being  on  one's  own." 

She  disappeared.  Fiorsen  could  hear  a  woman's 
acid  voice,  a  man's,  rather  hoarse  and  greasy,  the 
sound  of  a  smacking  kiss.  And,  with  a  vicious 
shrug,  he  stood  at  bay.  Trapped !  The  little  devil ! 
The  little  dovelike  devil !  He  saw  a  lady  in  a  silk 
dress,  green  shot  with  beetroot  colour,  a  short, 
thick  gentleman  with  a  round,  greyish  beard,  in  a 
grey  suit,  having  a  small  dahlia  in  his  buttonhole, 
and,  behind  them,  Daphne  Wing,  flushed,  and  very 
round-eyed.  He  took  a  step,  intending  to  escape 
without  more  ado.    The  gentleman  said: 

"Introduce  us,  Daisy.  I  didn't  quite  catch — Mr. 
Dawson  ?  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  One  of  my  daugh- 
ter's impresarios,  I  think.  'Appy  to  meet  you,  I'm 
sure." 

Fiorsen  took  a  long  breath,  and  bowed.  Mr. 
Wagge's  small  piggy  eyes  had  fixed  themselves  on 
the  little  trees. 

"She's  got  a  nice  little  place  here  for  her  work — 
quiet  and  unconventional.  I  hope  you  think  well 
of  her  talent,  sir?  You  might  go  further  and  fare 
worse,  I  believe." 

Again  Fiorsen  bowed. 

"You  may  be  proud  of  her,"  he  said;  "she  is  the 
rising  star." 

Mr.  Wagge  cleared  his  throat. 


356  BEYOND 

"Ow,"  he  said;  "ye'es!  From  a  little  thing,  we 
thought  she  had  stuff  in  her.  I've  come  to  take  a 
great  interest  in  her  work.  It's  not  in  my  line,  but 
I  think  she's  a  sticker;  I  like  to  see  perseverance. 
Where  you've  got  that,  you've  got  half  the  battle 
of  success.  So  many  of  these  young  people  seem  to 
think  life's  all  play.  You  must  see  a  lot  of  that  in 
your  profession,  sir." 

"Robert!" 

A  shiver  ran  down  Fiorsen's  spine. 

"Ye-es?" 

"The  name  was  not  Dawson !" 

There  followed  a  long  moment.  On  the  one  side 
was  that  vinegary  woman  poking  her  head  forward 
like  an  angry  hen,  on  the  other,  Daphne  Wing,  her 
eyes  rounder  and  rounder,  her  cheeks  redder  and 
redder,  her  lips  opening,  her  hands  clasped  to  her 
perfect  breast,  and,  in  the  centre,  that  broad,  grey- 
bearded  figure,  with  reddening  face  and  angry  eyes 
and  hoarsening  voice: 

"You  scoundrel!  You  infernal  scoundrel!"  It 
lurched  forward,  raising  a  pudgy  fist.  Fiorsen 
sprang  down  the  stairs  and  wrenched  open  the  door. 
He  walked  away  in  a  whirl  of  mortification.  Should 
he  go  back  and  take  that  pug-faced  vulgarian  by 
the  throat?  As  for  that  minx!  But  his  feelings 
about  her  were  too  complicated  for  expression.  And 
then — so  dark  and  random  are  the  ways  of  the  mind 
— his  thoughts  darted  back  to  Gyp,  sitting  on  the 
oaken  chest,  making  her  confession;  and  the  whips 
and  stings  of  it  scored  him  worse  than  ever. 


X 

That  same  evening,  standing  at  the  corner  of 
Bury  Street,  Summerhay  watched  Gyp  going  swiftly 
to  her  father's  house.  He  could  not  bring  himself 
to  move  while  there  was  still  a  chance  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her  face,  a  sign  from  her  hand.  Gone ! 
He  walked  away  with  his  head  down.  The  more 
blissful  the  hours  just  spent,  the  greater  the  desola- 
tion when  they  are  over.  Of  such  is  the  nature  of 
love,  as  he  was  now  discerning.  The  longing  to  have 
her  always  with  him  was  growing  fast.  Since  her 
husband  knew — why  wait?  There  would  be  no 
rest  for  either  of  them  in  an  existence  of  meetings 
and  partings  like  this,  with  the  menace  of  that 
fellow.  She  must  come  away  with  him  at  once — 
abroad — until  things  had  declared  themselves;  and 
then  he  must  find  a  place  where  they  could  live  and 
she  feel  safe  and  happy.  He  must  show  he  was  in 
dead  earnest,  set  his  affairs  in  order.  And  he 
thought:  'No  good  doing  things  by  halves.  Mother 
must  know.  The  sooner  the  better.  Get  it  over 
— at  once !'  And,  with  a  grimace  of  discomfort,  he 
set  out  for  his  aunt's  house  in  Cadogan  Gardens, 
where  his  mother  always  stayed  when  she  was  in  town. 

Lady  Summerhay  was  in  the  boudoir,  waiting  for 
dinner  and  reading  a  book  on  dreams.  A  red- 
shaded  lamp  cast  a  mellow  tinge  over  the  grey  frock, 
over  one  reddish  cheek  and  one  white  shoulder. 

357 


358  BEYOND 

She  was  a  striking  person,  tall  and  well  built,  her 
very  blonde  hair  only  just  turning  grey,  for  she  had 
married  young  and  been  a  widow  fifteen  years — one 
of  those  women  whose  naturally  free  spirits  have 
been  netted  by  association  with  people  of  public 
position.  Bubbles  were  still  rising  from  her  sub- 
merged soul,  but  it  was  obvious  that  it  would  not 
again  set  eyes  on  the  horizon.  With  views  neither 
narrow  nor  illiberal,  as  views  in  society  go,  she 
judged  everything  now  as  people  of  public  position 
must — discussion,  of  course,  but  no  alteration  in 
one's  way  of  living.  Speculation  and  ideas  did  not 
affect  social  usage.  The  countless  movements  in 
which  she  and  her  friends  were  interested  for  the 
emancipation  and  benefit  of  others  were,  in  fact, 
only  channels  for  letting  off  her  superfluous  good- 
will, conduit-pipes,  for  the  directing  spirit  bred  in 
her.  She  thought  and  acted  in  terms  of  the  public 
good,  regulated  by  what  people  of  position  said  at 
luncheon  and  dinner.  And  it  was  surely  not  her 
fault  that  such  people  must  lunch  and  dine.  When 
her  son  had  bent  and  kissed  her,  she  held  up  the 
book  to  him  and  said: 

"Well,  Bryan,  I  think  this  man's  book  disgraceful; 
he  simply  runs  his  sex-idea  to  death.  Really,  we 
aren't  all  quite  so  obsessed  as  that.  I  do  think  he 
ought  to  be  put  in  his  own  lunatic  asylum." 

Summerhay,  looking  down  at  her  gloomily,  an- 
swered: 

"I've  got  bad  news  for  you,  Mother." 

Lady  Summerhay  closed  the  book  and  searched 


BEYOND  359 

his  face  with  apprehension.  She  knew  that  expres- 
sion. She  knew  that  poise  of  his  head,  as  if  butting 
at  something.  He  looked  like  that  when  he  came 
to  her  in  gambling  scrapes.  Was  this  another? 
Bryan  had  always  been  a  pickle.  His  next  words 
took  her  breath  away. 

"The  people  at  Mildenham,  Major  Winton  and 
his  daughter — you  know.  Well,  I'm  in  love  with 
her — I'm — I'm  her  lover." 

Lady  Summerhay  uttered  a  gasp. 

"  But— but— Bryan " 

"That  fellow  she  married  drinks.  He's  impos- 
sible. She  had  to  leave  him  a  year  ago,  with  her 
baby — other  reasons,  too.  Look  here,  Mother: 
This  is  hateful,  but  you'd  got  to  know.  I  can't 
talk  of  her.  There's  no  chance  of  a  divorce."  His 
voice  grew  higher.  "Don't  try  to  persuade  me  out 
of  it.     It's  no  good." 

Lady  Summerhay,  from  whose  comely  face  a 
frock,  as  it  were,  had  slipped,  clasped  her  hands  to- 
gether on  the  book. 

Such  a  swift  descent  of  "life"  on  one  to  whom  it 
had  for  so  long  been  a  series  of  "cases"  was  cruel, 
and  her  son  felt  this  without  quite  realizing  why. 
In  the  grip  of  his  new  emotions,  he  still  retained 
enough  balance  to  appreciate  what  an  abominably 
desolate  piece  of  news  this  must  be  to  her,  what  a 
disturbance  and  disappointment.  And,  taking  her 
hand,  he  put  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Cheer  up,  Mother !  It's  all  right.  She's  happy, 
and  so  am  I." 


360  BEYOND 

Lady  Summerhay  could  only  press  her  hand 
against  his  kiss,  and  murmur: 

"Yes;  that's  not  everything,  Bryan.  Is  there — 
is  there  going  to  be  a  scandal?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  hope  not;  but,  anyway,  he 
knows  about  it." 

"Society  doesn't  forgive." 

Summerhay  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Awfully  sorry  for  you,  Mother." 

"Oh,  Bryan!" 

This  repetition  of  her  plaint  jarred  his  nerves. 

"Don't  run  ahead  of  things.  You  needn't  tell 
Edith  or  Flo.  You  needn't  tell  anybody.  We 
don't  know  what'U  happen  yet." 

But  in  Lady  Summerhay  all  was  too  sore  and 
blank.  This  woman  she  had  never  seen,  whose 
origin  was  doubtful,  whose  marriage  must  have 
soiled  her,  who  was  some  kind  of  a  siren,  no  doubt. 
It  really  was  too  hard !  She  believed  in  her  son, 
had  dreamed  of  public  position  for  him,  or,  rather, 
felt  he  would  attain  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  And 
she  said  feebly: 

"This  Major  Winton  is  a  man  of  breeding,  isn't 
he?" 

"Rather!"  And,  stopping  before  her,  as  if  he 
read  her  thoughts,  he  added:  "You  think  she's  not 
good  enough  for  me?  She's  good  enough  for  any- 
one on  earth.  And  she's  the  proudest  woman  I've 
ever  met.  If  you're  bothering  as  to  what  to  do 
about  her — don't!  She  won't  want  anything  of 
an}Tbody — I  can  tell  you  that.  She  won't  accept 
any  crumbs." 


BEYOND  361 

"That's  lucky!"  hovered  on  Lady  Summerhay's 
lips;  but,  gazing  at  her  son,  she  became  aware  that 
she  stood  on  the  brink  of  a  downfall  in  his  heart. 
Then  the  bitterness  of  her  disappointment  rising 
up  again,  she  said  coldly: 

"Are  you  going  to  live  together  openly?" 

"Yes;  if  she  will." 

"You  don't  know  yet?" 

"I  shall— soon." 

Lady  Summerhay  got  up,  and  the  book  on  dreams 
slipped  off  her  lap  with  a  thump.  She  went  to  the 
fireplace,  and  stood  there  looking  at  her  son.  He 
had  altered.  His  merry  look  was  gone;  his  face 
was  strange  to  her.  She  remembered  it  like  that, 
once  in  the  park  at  Widrington,  when  he  lost  his 
temper  with  a  pony  and  came  galloping  past  her, 
sitting  back,  his  curly  hair  stivered  up  like  a  little 
demon's.     And  she  said  sadly: 

"You  can  hardly  expect  me  to  like  it  for  you, 
Bryan,  even  if  she  is  what  you  say.  And  isn't 
there  some  story  about " 

"My  dear  mother,  the  more  there  is  against  her, 
the  more  I  shall  love  her — that's  obvious." 

Lady  Summerhay  sighed  again. 

"What  is  this  man  going  to  do?  I  heard  him 
play  once." 

"I  don't  know.  Nothing,  I  dare  say.  Morally 
and  legally,  he's  out  of  court.  I  only  wish  to  God 
he  would  bring  a  case,  and  I  could  marry  her;  but 
Gyp  says  he  won't." 

Lady  Summerhay  murmured: 

"  Gyp  ?    Is  that  her  name  ?  "    And  a  sudden  wish, 


362  BEYOND 

almost  a  longing,  not  a  friendly  one,  to  see  this 
woman  seized  her.  "Will  you  bring  her  to  see  me? 
I'm  alone  here  till  Wednesday." 

"I'll  ask  her,  but  I  don't  think  she'll  come."  He 
turned  his  head  away.     "Mother,  she's  wonderful ! " 

An  unhappy  smile  twisted  Lady  Summerhay's 
lips.  No  doubt !  Aphrodite  herself  had  visited  her 
boy.  Aphrodite!  And — afterward?  She  asked 
desolately : 

"Does  Major  Winton  know?" 

"Yes." 

"What  does  he  say  to  it?" 

"Say?  What  can  anyone  say ?  From  your  point 
of  view,  or  his,  it's  rotten,  of  course.  But  in  her 
position,  anything's  rotten." 

At  that  encouraging  word,  the  flood-gates  gave 
way  in  Lady  Summerhay,  and  she  poured  forth  a 
stream  of  words. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  can't  you  pull  up?  I've  seen  so 
many  of  these  affairs  go  wrong.  It  really  is  not 
for  nothing  that  law  and  conventions  are  what  they 
are — believe  me !  Really,  Bryan,  experience  does 
show  that  the  pressure's  too  great.  It's  only  once 
in  a  way — very  exceptional  people,  very  exceptional 
circumstances.  You  mayn't  think  now  it'll  hamper 
you,  but  you'll  find  it  will — most  fearfully.  It's 
not  as  if  you  were  a  writer  or  an  artist,  who  can 
take  his  work  where  he  likes  and  live  in  a  desert 
if  he  wants.  You've  got  to  do  yours  in  London, 
your  whole  career  is  bound  up  with  society.  Do 
think,  before  you  go  butting  up  against  it!    It's 


BEYOND  363 

all  very  well  to  say  it's  no  affair  of  anyone's,  but 
you'll  find  it  is,  Bryan.  And  then,  can  you — can 
you  possibly  make  her  happy  in  the  long-run?" 

She  stopped  at  the  expression  on  his  face.  It  was 
as  if  he  were  saying:  "I  have  left  your  world. 
Talk  to  your  fellows;  all  this  is  nothing  to  me." 

"Look  here,  Mother:  you  don't  seem  to  under- 
stand. I'm  devoted — devoted  so  that  there's  noth- 
ing else  for  me." 

"How  long  will  that  last,  Bryan?  You  mean 
bewitched." 

Summerhay  said,  with  passion: 

"I  don't.  I  mean  what  I  said.  Good-night!" 
And  he  went  to  the  door. 

"Won't  you  stay  to  dinner,  dear?" 

But  he  was  gone,  and  the  full  of  vexation,  anxiety, 
and  wretchedness  came  on  Lady  Summerhay.  It 
was  too  hard !  She  went  down  to  her  lonely  dinner, 
desolate  and  sore.  And  to  the  book  on  dreams, 
opened  beside  her  plate,  she  turned  eyes  that  took 
in  nothing. 

Summerhay  went  straight  home.  The  lamps 
were  brightening  in  the  early-autumn  dusk,  and  a 
draughty,  ruffling  wind  flicked  a  yellow  leaf  here  and 
there  from  off  the  plane  trees.  It  was  just  the  mo- 
ment when  evening  blue  comes  into  the  colouring  of 
the  town — that  hour  of  fusion  when  day's  hard  and 
staring  shapes  are  softening,  growing  dark,  myste- 
rious, and  all  that  broods  behind  the  lives  of  men 
and  trees  and  houses  comes  down  on  the  wings  of 


364  BEYOND 

illusion  to  repossess  the  world — the  hour  when  any 
poetry  in  a  man  wells  up.  But  Surnmerhay  still 
heard  his  mother's,  "Oh,  Bryan !"  and,  for  the  first 
time,  knew  the  feeling  that  his  hand  was  against 
everyone's.  There  was  a  difference  already,  or  so 
it  seemed  to  him,  in  the  expression  of  each  passer-by. 
Nothing  any  more  would  be  a  matter  of  course; 
and  he  was  of  a  class  to  whom  everything  has  always 
been  a  matter  of  course.  Perhaps  he  did  not  real- 
ize this  clearly  yet;  but  he  had  begun  to  take  what 
the  nurses  call  "notice,"  as  do  those  only  who  are 
forced  on  to  the  defensive  against  society. 

Putting  his  latch-key  into  the  lock,  he  recalled 
the  sensation  with  which,  that  afternoon,  he  had 
opened  to  Gyp  for  the  first  time — half  furtive,  half 
defiant.  It  would  be  all  defiance  now.  This  was 
the  end  of  the  old  order !  And,  fighting  a  fire  in  his 
sitting-room,  he  began  pulling  out  drawers,  sorting 
and  destroying.  He  worked  for  hours,  burning, 
making  lists,  packing  papers  and  photographs. 
Finishing  at  last,  he  drank  a  stiff  whisky  and  soda, 
and  sat  down  to  smoke.  Now  that  the  room  was 
quiet,  Gyp  seemed  to  fill  it  again  with  her  presence. 
Closing  his  eyes,  he  could  see  her  there  by  the 
hearth,  just  as  she  stood  before  they  left,  turning 
her  face  up  to  him,  murmuring:  "You  won't  stop 
loving  me,  now  you're  so  sure  I  love  you?"  Stop 
loving  her !  The  more  she  loved  him,  the  more  he 
would  love  her.  And  he  said  aloud:  "By  God!  I 
won't!"  At  that  remark,  so  vehement  for  the 
time  of  night,  the  old  Scotch  terrier,  Ossian,  came 


BEYOND  365 

from  his  corner  and  shoved  his    long  black  nose 
into  his  master's  hand. 

"  Come  along  up,  Ossy !  Good  dog,  Oss ! "  And, 
comforted  by  the  warmth  of  that  black  body  be- 
side him  in  the  chair,  Summerhay  fell  asleep  in 
front  of  the  fire  smouldering  with  blackened  frag- 
ments of  his  past. 


XI 

Though  Gyp  had  never  seemed  to  look  round, 
she  had  been  quite  conscious  of  Summerhay  still 
standing  where  they  had  parted,  watching  her  into 
the  house  in  Bury  Street.  The  strength  of  her  own 
feeling  surprised  her,  as  a  bather  in  the  sea  is  sur- 
prised, finding  her  feet  will  not  touch  bottom,  that 
she  is  carried  away  helpless — only,  these  were  the 
waters  of  ecstasy. 

For  the  second  night  running,  she  hardly  slept, 
hearing  the  clocks  of  St.  James's  strike,  and  Big 
Ben  boom,  hour  after  hour.  At  breakfast,  she  told 
her  father  of  Fiorsen's  reappearance.  He  received 
the  news  with  a  frown  and  a  shrewd  glance. 

"Well,  Gyp?" 

"I  told  him." 

His  feelings,  at  that  moment,  were  perhaps  as 
mixed  as  they  had  ever  been — curiosity,  parental 
disapproval,  to  which  he  knew  he  was  not  entitled, 
admiration  of  her  pluck  in  letting  that  fellow  know, 
fears  for  the  consequences  of  this  confession,  and, 
more  than  all,  his  profound  disturbance  at  knowing 
her  at  last  launched  into  the  deep  waters  of  love. 
It  was  the  least  of  these  feelings  that  found  expres- 
sion. 

"How  did  he  take  it?" 

366 


BEYOND  367 

"Rushed  away.  The  only  thing  I  feel  sure  of  is 
that  he  won't  divorce  me." 

"No,  by  George;  I  don't  suppose  even  he  would 
have  that  impudence!"  And  Winton  was  silent, 
trying  to  penetrate  the  future.  "Well,"  he  said 
suddenly,  "it's  on  the  knees  of  the  gods  then.  But 
be  careful,  Gyp." 

About  noon,  Betty  returned  from  the  sea,  with 
a  solemn,  dark-eyed,  cooing  little  Gyp,  brown  as  a 
roasted  coffee-berry.  When  she  had  been  given  all 
that  she  could  wisely  eat  after  the  journey,  Gyp 
carried  her  off  to  her  own  room,  undressed  her  for 
sheer  delight  of  kissing  her  from  head  to  foot,  and 
admiring  her  plump  brown  legs,  then  cuddled  her 
up  in  a  shawl  and  lay  down  with  her  on  the  bed. 
A  few  sleepy  coos  and  strokings,  and  little  Gyp  had 
left  for  the  land  of  Nod,  while  her  mother  lay  gaz- 
ing at  her  black  lashes  with  a  kind  of  passion.  She 
was  not  a  child-lover  by  nature;  but  this  child  of 
her  own,  with  her  dark  softness,  plump  delicacy, 
giving  disposition,  her  cooing  voice,  and  constant 
adjurations  to  "dear  mum,"  was  adorable.  There 
was  something  about  her  insidiously  seductive.  She 
had  developed  so  quickly,  with  the  graceful  round- 
ness of  a  little  animal,  the  perfection  of  a  flower. 
The  Italian  blood  of  her  great-great-grandmother 
was  evidently  prepotent  in  her  as  yet;  and,  though 
she  was  not  yet  two  years  old,  her  hair,  which  had 
lost  its  baby  darkness,  was  already  curving  round 
her  neck  and  waving  on  her  forehead.  One  of  her 
tiny  brown    hands    had    escaped    the    shawl    and 


368  BEYOND 

grasped  its  edge  with  determined  softness.  And 
while  Gyp  gazed  at  the  pinkish  nails  and  their  ab- 
surdly wee  half -moons,  at  the  sleeping  tranquillity 
stirred  by  breathing  no  more  than  a  rose-leaf  on  a 
windless  day,  her  lips  grew  fuller,  trembled,  reached 
toward  the  dark  lashes,  till  she  had  to  rein  her  neck 
back  with  a  jerk  to  stop  such  self-indulgence. 
Soothed,  hypnotized,  almost  in  a  dream,  she  lay 
there  beside  her  baby. 

That  evening,  at  dinner,  Win  ton  said  calmly: 

"Well,  I've  been  to  see  Fiorsen,  and  warned  him 
off.  Found  him  at  that  fellow  Rosek's."  Gyp  re- 
ceived the  news  with  a  vague  sensation  of  alarm. 
"And  I  met  that  girl,  the  dancer,  coming  out  of 
the  house  as  I  was  going  in — made  it  plain  I'd  seen 
her,  so  I  don't  think  he'll  trouble  you." 

An  irresistible  impulse  made  her  ask: 

"How  was  she  looking,  Dad?" 

Winton  smiled  grimly.  How  to  convey  his  im- 
pression of  the  figure  he  had  seen  coming  down  the 
steps — of  those  eyes  growing  rounder  and  rounder 
at  sight  of  him,  of  that  mouth  opening  in  an:  "Oh  !" 

"Much  the  same.  Rather  flabbergasted  at  see- 
ing me,  I  think.  A  white  hat — very  smart.  At- 
tractive in  her  way,  but  common,  of  course.  Those 
two  were  playing  the  piano  and  fiddle  when  I  went 
up.  They  tried  not  to  let  me  in,  but  I  wasn't  to  be 
put  off.     Queer  place,  that ! " 

Gyp  smiled.  She  could  see  it  all  so  well.  The 
black  walls,  the  silver  statuettes,  Rops  drawings, 
scent  of  dead  rose-leaves  and  pastilles  and  cigarettes 


BEYOND  369 

— and  those  two  by  the  piano — and  her  father  so 
cool  and  dry! 

"One  can't  stand  on  ceremony  with  fellows  like 
that.  I  hadn't  forgotten  that  Polish  chap's  be- 
haviour to  you,  my  dear." 

Through  Gyp  passed  a  quiver  of  dread,  a  vague 
return  of  the  feelings  once  inspired  by  Rosek. 

"I'm  almost  sorry  you  went,  Dad.  Did  you  say 
anything  very " 

"Did  I?  Let's  see!  No;  I  think  I  was  quite 
polite."  He  added,  with  a  grim,  little  smile:  "I 
won't  swear  I  didn't  call  one  of  them  a  ruffian.  I 
know  they  said  something  about  my  presuming  on 
being  a  cripple." 

"Oh,  darling!" 

"Yes;  it  was  that  Polish  chap — and  so  he  is !" 

Gyp  murmured: 

"I'd  almost  rather  it  had  been — the  other." 
Rosek's  pale,  suave  face,  with  the  eyes  behind  which 
there  were  such  hidden  things,  and  the  lips  sweetish 
and  restrained  and  sensual — he  would  never  forgive ! 
But  Winton  only  smiled  again,  patting  her  arm.  He 
was  pleased  with  an  encounter  which  had  relieved 
his  feelings. 

Gyp  spent  all  that  evening  writing  her  first  real 
love-letter.  But  when,  next  afternoon  at  six,  in 
fulfilment  of  its  wording,  she  came  to  Summerhay's 
little  house,  her  heart  sank;  for  the  blinds  were 
down  and  it  had  a  deserted  look.  If  he  had  been 
there,  he  would  have  been  at  the  window,  waiting. 
Had  he,  then,  not  got  her  letter,  not  been  home 


37©  BEYOND 

since  yesterday?  And  that  chill  fear  which  besets 
lovers'  hearts  at  failure  of  a  tryst  smote  her  for  the 
first  time.  In  the  three-cornered  garden  stood  a 
decayed  statue  of  a  naked  boy  with  a  broken  bow — 
a  sparrow  was  perching  on  his  greenish  shoulder; 
sooty,  heart-shaped  lilac  leaves  hung  round  his  head, 
and  at  his  legs  the  old  Scotch  terrier  was  sniffing. 
Gyp  called:  "Ossian!  Ossy!"  and  the  old  dog 
came,  wagging  his  tail  feebly. 

"Master!  Where  is  your  master,  dear?" 
Ossian  poked  his  long  nose  into  her  calf,  and  that 
gave  her  a  little  comfort.  She  passed,  perforce, 
away  from  the  deserted  house  and  returned  home; 
but  all  manner  of  frightened  thoughts  beset  her. 
Where  had  he  gone?  Why  had  he  gone?  Why 
had  he  not  let  her  know  ?  Doubts — those  hasty  at- 
tendants on  passion — came  thronging,  and  scepti- 
cism ran  riot.  What  did  she  know  of  his  life,  of 
his  interests,  of  him,  except  that  he  said  he  loved 
her?  Where  had  he  gone?  To  Widrington,  to 
some  smart  house-party,  or  even  back  to  Scotland? 
The  jealous  feelings  that  had  so  besieged  her  at  the 
bungalow  when  his  letters  ceased  came  again  now 
with  redoubled  force.  There  must  be  some  woman 
who,  before  their  love  began,  had  claim  on  him,  or 
some  girl  that  he  admired.  He  never  told  her  of 
any  such — of  course,  he  would  not !  She  was  amazed 
and  hurt  by  her  capacity  for  jealousy.  She  had 
always  thought  she  would  be  too  proud  to  feel 
jealousy — a  sensation  so  dark  and  wretched  and  un- 
dignified, but — alas ! — so  horribly  real  and  clinging. 


BEYOND  371 

She  had  said  she  was  not  dining  at  home;  so  Win- 
ton  had  gone  to  his  club,  and  she  was  obliged  to 
partake  of  a  little  trumped-up  lonely  meal.  She 
went  up  to  her  room  after  it,  but  there  came  on  her 
such  restlessness  that  presently  she  put  on  her 
things  and  slipped  out.  She  went  past  St.  James's 
Church  into  Piccadilly,  to  the  further,  crowded  side, 
and  began  to  walk  toward  the  park.  This  was 
foolish;  but  to  do  a  foolish  thing  was  some  relief, 
and  she  went  along  with  a  faint  smile,  mocking  her 
own  recklessness.  Several  women  of  the  town — 
ships  of  night  with  sails  set — came  rounding  out  of 
side  streets  or  down  the  main  stream,  with  their 
skilled,  rapid-seeming  slowness.  And  at  the  dis- 
comfited, half-hostile  stares  on  their  rouged  and 
powdered  faces,  Gyp  felt  a  wicked  glee.  She  was 
disturbing,  hurting  them — and  she  wanted  to  hurt. 

Presently,  a  man,  in  evening  dress,  with  overcoat 
thrown  open,  gazed  pointblank  into  her  face,  and, 
raising  his  hat,  ranged  up  beside  her.  She  walked 
straight  on,  still  with  that  half-smile,  knowing  him 
puzzled  and  fearfully  attracted.  Then  an  insen- 
sate wish  to  stab  him  to  the  heart  made  her  turn  her 
head  and  look  at  him.  At  the  expression  on  her 
face,  he  wilted  away  from  her,  and  again  she  felt 
that  wicked  glee  at  having  hurt  him. 

She  crossed  out  into  the  traffic,  to  the  park  side, 
and  turned  back  toward  St.  James's;  and  now  she 
was  possessed  by  profound,  black  sadness.  If  only 
her  lover  were  beside  her  that  beautiful  evening, 
among  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  trees,  in  the 


372  BEYOND 

warm  air!  Why  was  he  not  among  these  passers- 
by?  She  who  could  bring  any  casual  man  to  her 
side  by  a  smile  could  not  conjure  up  the  only  one 
she  wanted  from  this  great  desert  of  a  town !  She 
hurried  along,  to  get  in  and  hide  her  longing.  But 
at  the  corner  of  St.  James's  Street,  she  stopped. 
That  was  his  club,  nearly  opposite.  Perhaps  he 
was  there,  playing  cards  or  billiards,  a  few  yards 
away,  and  yet  as  in  another  world.  Presently  he 
would  come  out,  go  to  some  music-hall,  or  stroll 
home  thinking  of  her — perhaps  not  even  thinking 
of  her!  Another  woman  passed,  giving  her  a  fur- 
tive glance.  But  Gyp  felt  no  glee  now.  And,  cross- 
ing over,  close  under  the  windows  of  the  club,  she 
hurried  home.  When  she  reached  her  room,  she 
broke  into  a  storm  of  tears.  How  could  she  have 
liked  hurting  those  poor  women,  hurting  that  man 
— who  was  only  paying  her  a  man's  compliment, 
after  all?  And  with  these  tears,  her  jealous,  wild 
feelings  passed,  leaving  only  her  longing. 

Next  morning  brought  a  letter.  Summerhay 
wrote  from  an  inn  on  the  river,  asking  her  to  come 
down  by  the  eleven  o'clock  train,  and  he  would 
meet  her  at  the  station.  He  wanted  to  show  her 
a  house  that  he  had  seen;  and  they  could  have  the 
afternoon  on  the  river!  Gyp  received  this  letter, 
which  began:  "My  darling!"  with  an  ecstasy  that 
she  could  not  quite  conceal.  And  Winton,  who  had 
watched  her  face,  said  presently: 

"I  think  I  shall  go  to  Newmarket,  Gyp.  Home 
to-morrow  evening." 


BEYOND  373 

In  the  train  on  the  way  down,  she  sat  with  closed 
eyes,  in  a  sort  of  trance.  If  her  lover  had  been  there 
holding  her  in  his  arms,  he  could  not  have  seemed 
nearer. 

She  saw  him  as  the  train  ran  in;  but  they  met 
without  a  hand-clasp,  without  a  word,  simply  look- 
ing at  each  other  and  breaking  into  smiles. 

A  little  victoria  "dug  up" — as  Summerhay  said 
— "horse,  driver  and  all,"  carried  them  slowly  up- 
ward. Under  cover  of  the  light  rugs  their  hands  were 
clasped,  and  they  never  ceased  to  look  into  each 
other's  faces,  except  for  those  formal  glances  of 
propriety  which  deceive  no  one. 

The  day  was  beautiful,  as  only  early  September 
days  can  be — when  the  sun  is  hot,  yet  not  too  hot, 
and  its  light  falls  in  a  silken  radiance  on  trees  just 
losing  the  opulent  monotony  of  summer,  on  silvery- 
gold  reaped  fields,  silvery-green  uplands,  golden  mus- 
tard; when  shots  ring  out  in  the  distance,  and,  as 
one  gazes,  a  leaf  falls,  without  reason,  as  it  would 
seem.  Presently  they  branched  off  the  main  road 
by  a  lane  past  a  clump  of  beeches  and  drew  up  at 
the  gate  of  a  lonely  house,  built  of  very  old  red  brick, 
and  covered  by  Virginia  creeper  just  turning — a 
house  with  an  ingle-nook  and  low,  broad  chimneys. 
Before  it  was  a  walled,  neglected  lawn,  with  poplars 
and  one  large  walnut-tree.  The  sunlight  seemed  to 
have  collected  in  that  garden,  and  there  was  a  tre- 
mendous hum  of  bees.  Above  the  trees,  the  downs 
could  be  seen  where  racehorses,  they  said,  were 
trained.     Summerhay  had  the  keys  of  the  house, 


374  BEYOND 

and  they  went  in.  To  Gyp,  it  was  like  a  child's 
"pretending" — to  imagine  they  were  going  to  live 
there  together,  to  sort  out  the  rooms  and  consecrate 
each.  She  would  not  spoil  this  perfect  day  by  argu- 
ment or  admission  of  the  need  for  a  decision.  And 
when  he  asked: 

"Well,  darling,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  she 
only  answered: 

"Oh,  lovely,  in  a  way;  but  let's  go  back  to  the 
river  and  make  the  most  of  it." 

They  took  boat  at '  The  Bowl  of  Cream,'  the  river 
inn  where  Summerhay  was  staying.  To  him,  who 
had  been  a  rowing  man  at  Oxford,  the  river  was 
known  from  Lechlade  to  Richmond;  but  Gyp  had 
never  in  her  life  been  on  it,  and  its  placid  magic, 
unlike  that  of  any  other  river  in  the  world,  almost 
overwhelmed  her.  On  this  glistening,  windless  day, 
to  drift  along  past  the  bright,  flat  water-lily  leaves 
over  the  greenish  depths,  to  listen  to  the  pigeons, 
watch  the  dragon-flies  flitting  past,  and  the  fish 
leaping  lazily,  not  even  steering,  letting  her  hand 
dabble  in  the  water,  then  cooling  her  sun-warmed 
cheek  with  it,  and  all  the  time  gazing  at  Summerhay, 
who,  dipping  his  sculls  gently,  gazed  at  her — all  this 
was  like  a  voyage  down  some  river  of  dreams,  the 
very  fulfilment  of  felicity.  There  is  a  degree  of 
happiness  known  to  the  human  heart  which  seems 
to  belong  to  some  enchanted  world — a  bright  maze 
into  which,  for  a  moment  now  and  then,  we  escape 
and  wander.  To-day,  he  was  more  than  ever  like 
her  Botticelli  "Young  Man,"  with  his  neck  bare, 


BEYOND  375 

and  his  face  so  clear-eyed  and  broad  and  brown. 
Had  she  really  had  a  life  with  another  man?  And 
only  a  year  ago  ?     It  seemed  inconceivable ! 

But  when,  in  the  last  backwater,  he  tied  the  boat 
up  and  came  to  sit  with  her  once  more,  it  was  already 
getting  late,  and  the  vague  melancholy  of  the  now 
shadowy  river  was  stealing  into  her.  And,  with  a 
sort  of  sinking  in  her  heart,  she  heard  him  begin: 

"  Gyp,  we  must  go  away  together.  We  can  never 
stand  it  going  on  apart,  snatching  hours  here  and 
there." 

Pressing  his  hand  to  her  cheeks,  she  murmured: 

"Why  not,  darling?  Hasn't  this  been  perfect? 
What  could  we  ever  have  more  perfect?  It's  been 
paradise  itself ! " 

"Yes;  but  to  be  thrown  out  every  day!  To  be 
whole  days  and  nights  without  you !  Gyp,  you 
must — you  must !  What  is  there  against  it?  Don't 
you  love  me  enough?" 

She  looked  at  him,  and  then  away  into  the  shadows. 

"Too  much,  I  think.  It's  tempting  Providence 
to  change.  Let's  go  on  as  we  are,  Bryan.  No; 
don't  look  like  that — don't  be  angry!" 

"Why  are  you  afraid?  Are  you  sorry  for  our 
love?" 

"No;  but  let  it  be  like  this.  Don't  let's  risk  any- 
thing." 

"Risk?  Is  it  people — society — you're  afraid  of? 
I  thought  you  wouldn't  care." 

Gyp  smiled. 

"Society?    No;  I'm  not  afraid  of  that." 


376  BEYOND 

"What,  then?    Of  me?" 

"I  don't  know.  Men  soon  get  tired.  I'm  a 
doubter,  Bryan,  I  can't  help  it." 

"As  if  anyone  could  get  tired  of  you!  Are  you 
afraid  of  yourself?" 

Again  Gyp  smiled. 

"Not  of  loving  too  little,  I  told  you." 

"How  can  one  love  too  much?" 

She  drew  his  head  down  to  her.  But  when  that 
kiss  was  over,  she  only  said  again: 

"No,  Bryan;  let's  go  on  as  we  are.  I'll  make  up 
to  you  when  I'm  with  you.  If  you  were  to  tire  of 
me,  I  couldn't  bear  it." 

For  a  long  time  more  he  pleaded — now  with  anger, 
now  with  kisses,  now  with  reasonings;  but,  to  all, 
she  opposed  that  same  tender,  half-mournful  "No," 
and,  at  last,  he  gave  it  up,  and,  in  dogged  silence, 
rowed  her  to  the  village,  whence  she  was  to  take 
train  back.  It  was  dusk  when  they  left  the  boat, 
and  dew  was  falling.  Just  before  they  reached  the 
station,  she  caught  his  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her 
breast. 

"Darling,  don't  be  angry  with  me!  Perhaps  I 
will — some  day." 

And,  in  the  train,  she  tried  to  think  herself  once 
more  in  the  boat,  among  the  shadows  and  the  whis- 
pering reeds  and  all  the  quiet  wonder  of  the  river. 


XII 

On  reaching  home  she  let  herself  in  stealthily, 
and,  though  she  had  not  had  dinner,  went  up  at 
once  to  her  room.  She  was  just  taking  off  her  blouse 
when  Betty  entered,  her  round  face  splotched  with 
red,  and  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 

"Betty!    What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,  where  Itave  you  been?  Such  a 
dreadful  piece  of  news !  They've  stolen  her !  That 
wicked  man — your  husband — he  took  her  right  out 
of  her  pram — and  went  off  with  her  in  a  great  car 
— he  and  that  other  one !  I've  been  half  out  of  my 
mind!"  Gyp  stared  aghast.  "I  hollered  to  a 
policeman.  'He's  stolen  her — her  father!  Catch 
them!'  I  said.  'However  shall  I  face  my  mis- 
tress?'" She  stopped  for  breath,  then  burst  out 
again.  "'He's  a  bad  one,'  I  said.  'A  foreigner! 
They're  both  foreigners!'  'Her  father?'  he  said. 
'Well,  why  shouldn't  he?  He's  only  givin'  her  a 
joy  ride.  H  'U  bring  her  back,  never  you  fear.' 
And  I  ran  home-— I  didn't  know  where  you  were. 
Oh  dear!  The  major  away  and  all — what  was  I 
to  do?  I'd  just  turned  round  to  shut  the  gate  of 
the  square  gardens,  and  I  never  saw  him  till  he'd 
put  his  great  long  arm  over  the  pram  and  snatched 
her  out."  And,  sitting  on  the  bed,  she  gave  way 
utterly. 

?77 


378  BEYOND 

Gyp  stood  still.  Nemesis  for  her  happiness? 
That  vengeful  wretch,  Rosek !  This  was  his  doing. 
And  she  said: 

"Oh,  Betty,  she  must  be  crying!" 

A  fresh  outburst  of  moans  was  the  only  answer. 
Gyp  remembered  suddenly  what  the  lawyer  had 
said  over  a  year  ago — it  had  struck  her  with  terror 
at  the  time.  In  law,  Fiorsen  owned  and  could 
claim  her  child.  She  could  have  got  her  back,  then, 
by  bringing  a  horrible  case  against  him,  but  now, 
perhaps,  she  had  no  chance.  Was  it  her  return  to 
Fiorsen  that  they  aimed  at — or  the  giving  up  of  her 
lover?    She  went  over  to  her  mirror,  saying: 

"We'll  go  at  once,  Betty,  and  get  her  back  some- 
how.   Wash  your  face." 

WTiile  she  made  ready,  she  fought  down  those  two 
horrible  fears — of  losing  her  child,  of  losing  her 
lover;  the  less  she  feared,  the  better  she  could  act, 
the  more  subtly,  the  swifter.  She  remembered  that 
she  had  somewhere  a  little  stiletto,  given  her  a  long 
time  ago.  She  hunted  it  out,  slipped  off  its  red- 
leather  sheath,  and,  stabbing  the  point  into  a  tiny 
cork,  slipped  it  beneath  her  blouse.  If  they  could 
steal  her  baby,  they  were  capable  of  anything.  She 
wrote  a  note  to  her  father,  telling  him  what  had 
happened,  and  saying  where  she  had  gone.  Then, 
in  a  taxi,  they  set  forth.  Cold  water  and  the  calm- 
ness of  her  mistress  had  removed  from  Betty  the 
main  traces  of  emotion;  but  she  clasped  Gyp's 
hand  hard  and  gave  vent  to  heavy  sighs. 

Gyp  would  not  think.     If  she  thought  of  her  little 


BEYOND  379 

one  crying,  she  knew  she  would  cry,  too.  But  her 
hatred  for  those  who  had  dealt  this  cowardly  blow 
grew  within  her.  She  took  a  resolution  and  said 
quietly: 

"Mr.  Summerhay,  Betty.  That's  why  they've 
stolen  our  darling.  I  suppose  you  know  he  and  I 
care  for  each  other.  They've  stolen  her  so  as  to 
make  me  do  anything  they  like." 

A  profound  sigh  answered  her. 

Behind  that  moon-face  with  the  troubled  eyes, 
what  conflict  was  in  progress — between  unquestion- 
ing morality  and  unquestioning  belief  in  Gyp,  be- 
tween fears  for  her  and  wishes  for  her  happiness, 
between  the  loyal  retainer's  habit  of  accepting  and 
the  old  nurse's  feeling  of  being  in  charge  ?  She  said 
faintly: 

"Oh  dear!  He's  a  nice  gentleman,  too!"  And 
suddenly,  wheezing  it  out  with  unexpected  force: 
"To  say  truth,  I  never  did  hold  you  was  rightly 
married  to  that  foreigner  in  that  horrible  registry 
place — no  music,  no  flowers,  no  blessin'  asked,  nor 
nothing.     I  cried  me  eyes  out  at  the  time." 

Gyp  said  quietly: 

"No;  Betty,  I  never  was.  I  only  thought  I  was 
in  love."  A  convulsive  squeeze  and  creaking, 
whiffling  sounds  heralded  a  fresh  outburst.  "Don't 
cry;  we're  just  there.    Think  of  our  darling!" 

The  cab  stopped.  Feeling  for  her  little  weapon, 
she  got  out,  and  with  her  hand  slipped  firmly  under 
Betty's  arm,  led  the  way  upstairs.  Chilly  shudders 
ran  down  her  spine — memories  of  Daphne  Wing  and 


380  BEYOND 

Rosek,  of  that  large  woman — what  was  her  name  ? — 
of  many  other  faces,  of  unholy  hours  spent  up  there, 
in  a  queer  state,  never  quite  present,  never  com- 
fortable in  soul;  memories  of  late  re  turnings  down 
these  wide  stairs  out  to  their  cab,  of  Fiorsen  beside 
her  in  the  darkness,  his  dim,  broad-cheekboned 
face  moody  in  the  corner  or  pressed  close  to  hers. 
Once  they  had  walked  a  long  way  homeward  in  the 
dawn,  Rosek  with  them,  Fiorsen  playing  on  his 
muted  violin,  to  the  scandal  of  the  policemen  and 
the  cats.  Dim,  unreal  memories !  Grasping  Betty's 
arm  more  firmly,  she  rang  the  bell.  When  the  man 
servant,  whom  she  remembered  well,  opened  the 
door,  her  lips  were  so  dry  that  they  could  hardly 
form  the  words: 

"Is  Mr.  Fiorsen  in,  Ford?" 

"No,  ma'am;  Mr.  Fiorsen  and  Count  Rosek 
went  into  the  country  this  afternoon.  I  haven't 
their  address  at  present."  She  must  have  turned 
white,  for  she  could  hear  the  man  saying:  "Any- 
thing I  can  get  you,  ma'am?" 

"When  did  they  start,  please?" 

"One  o'clock,  ma'am — by  car.  Count  Rosek  was 
driving  himself.  I  should  say  they  won't  be  away 
long — they  just  had  their  bags  with  them."  Gyp 
put  out  her  hand  helplessly;  she  heard  the  servant 
say  in  a  concerned  voice:  "I  could  let  you  know 
the  moment  they  return,  ma'am,  if  you'd  kindly 
leave  me  your  address." 

Giving  her  card,  and  murmuring: 

"Thank  you,  Ford;    thank  you  very  much,"  she 


BEYOND  381 

grasped  Betty's  arm  again  and  leaned  heavily  on 
her  going  down  the  stairs. 

It  was  real,  black  fear  now.  To  lose  helpless 
things — children — dogs — and  know  for  certain  that 
one  cannot  get  to  them,  no  matter  what  they  may 
be  suffering !  To  be  pinned  down  to  ignorance  and 
have  in  her  ears  the  crying  of  her  child — this  horror, 
Gyp  suffered  now.  And  nothing  to  be  done! 
Nothing  but  to  go  to  bed  and  wait — hardest  of  all 
tasks!  Mercifully — thanks  to  her  long  day  in  the 
open — she  fell  at  last  into  a  dreamless  sleep,  and 
when  she  was  called,  there  was  a  letter  from  Fiorsen 
on  the  tray  with  her  tea. 

"Gyp: 

"  I  am  not  a  baby-stealer  like  your  father.  The  law  gives 
me  the  right  to  my  own  child.  But  swear  to  give  up  your 
lover,  and  the  baby  shall  come  back  to  you  at  once.  If 
you  do  not  give  him  up,  I  will  take  her  away  out  of  Eng- 
land. Send  me  an  answer  to  this  post-office,  and  do  not 
let  your  father  try  any  tricks  upon  me. 

"  Gustav  Fiorsen." 

Beneath  was  written  the  address  of  a  West  End 
post-office. 

When  Gyp  had  finished  reading,  she  went  through 
some  moments  of  such  mental  anguish  as  she  had 
never  known,  but — just  as  when  Betty  first  told  her 
of  the  stealing — her  wits  and  wariness  came  quickly 
back.  Had  he  been  drinking  when  he  wrote  that 
letter?  She  could  almost  fancy  that  she  smelled 
brandy,  but  it  was  so  easy  to  fancy  what  one  wanted 


382  BEYOND 

to.  She  read  it  through  again — this  time,  she  felt 
almost  sure  that  it  had  been  dictated  to  him.  If  he 
had  composed  the  wording  himself,  he  would  never 
have  resisted  a  gibe  at  the  law,  or  a  gibe  at  himself 
for  thus  safeguarding  her  virtue.  It  was  Rosek's 
doing.  Her  anger  flamed  up  anew.  Since  they 
used  such  mean,  cruel  ways,  why  need  she  herself 
be  scrupulous?    She  sprang  out  of  bed  and  wrote: 

"How  could  you  do  such  a  brutal  thing?  At  all  events, 
let  the  darling  have  her  nurse.  It's  not  like  you  to  let  a 
little  child  suffer.  Betty  will  be  ready  to  come  the  minute 
you  send  for  her.  As  for  myself,  you  must  give  me  time  to 
decide.     I  will  let  you  know  within  two  days. 

"  Gyp." 

When  she  had  sent  this  off,  and  a  telegram  to  her 
father  at  Newmarket,  she  read  Fiorsen's  letter  once 
more,  and  was  more  than  ever  certain  that  it  was 
Rosek's  wording.  And,  suddenly,  she  thought  of 
Daphne  Wing,  whom  her  father  had  seen  coming 
out  of  Rosek's  house.  Through  her  there  might  be 
a  way  of  getting  news.  She  seemed  to  see  again  the 
girl  lying  so  white  and  void  of  hope  when  robbed  by 
death  of  her  own  just-born  babe.  Yes;  surely  it  was 
worth  trying. 

An  hour  later,  her  cab  stopped  before  the  Wagges* 
door  in  Frankland  Street.  But  just  as  she  was  about 
to  ring  the  bell,  a  voice  from  behind  her  said: 

" Allow  me;  I  have  a  key.  What  may  I —  Oh, 
it's  you ! "  She  turned.  Mr.  Wagge,  in  professional 
habiliments,  was  standing  there.     "Come  in;  come 


BEYOND  383 

in,"  he  said.  "I  was  wondering  whether  perhaps 
we  shouldn't  be  seeing  you  after  what's  transpired." 

Hanging  his  tall  black  hat,  craped  nearly  to  the 
crown,  on  a  knob  of  the  mahogany  stand,  he  said 
huskily: 

"I  did  think  we'd  seen  the  last  of  that,"  and 
opened  the  dining-room  door.  "Come  in,  ma'am. 
We  can  put  our  heads  together  better  in  here." 

In  that  too  well  remembered  room,  the  table  was 
laid  with  a  stained  white  cloth,  a  cruet-stand,  and 
bottle  of  Worcestershire  sauce.  The  little  blue 
bowl  was  gone,  so  that  nothing  now  marred  the 
harmony  of  red  and  green.     Gyp  said  quickly: 

"Doesn't  Daph — Daisy  live  at  home,  then,  now?" 

The  expression  on  Mr.  Wagge's  face  was  singular; 
suspicion,  relief,  and  a  sort  of  craftiness  were  blended 
with  that  furtive  admiration  which  Gyp  seemed  al- 
ways to  excite  in  him. 

"Do  I  understand  that  you — er " 

"I  came  to  ask  if  Daisy  would  do  something  for 
me. 

Mr.  Wagge  blew  his  nose. 

"You  didn't  know — "  he  began  again. 

"Yes;  I  dare  say  she  sees  my  husband,  if  that's 
what  you  mean;  and  I  don't  mind — he's  nothing  to 
me  now." 

Mr.  Wagge's  face  became  further  complicated  by 
the  sensations  of  a  husband. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it's  not  to  be  wondered  at,  per- 
haps, in  the  circumstances.  I'm  sure  I  always 
thought " 


384  BEYOND 

Gyp  interrupted  swiftly. 

" Please,  Mr.  Wagge — please!  Will  you  give  me 
Daisy's  address?" 

Mr.  Wagge  remained  a  moment  in  deep  thought; 
then  he  said,  in  a  gruff,  jerky  voice: 

"  Seventy- three  Comrade  Street,  So'o.  Up  to 
seeing  him  there  on  Tuesday,  I  must  say  I  cherished 
every  hope.  Now  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  strike  him — 
he  was  too  quick  for  me — "  He  had  raised  one  of 
his  gloved  hands  and  was  sawing  it  up  and  down. 
The  sight  of  that  black  object  cleaving  the  air  nearly 
made  Gyp  scream,  her  nerves  were  so  on  edge. 
"It's  her  blasted  independence — I  beg  pardon — but 
who  wouldn't?"  he  ended  suddenly. 

Gyp  passed  him. 

"Who  wouldn't?"  she  heard  his  voice  behind 
her.  "I  did  think  she'd  have  run  straight  this 
time — "  And  while  she  was  fumbling  at  the  outer 
door,  his  red,  pudgy  face,  with  its  round  grey  beard, 
protruded  almost  over  her  shoulder.  "If  you're 
going  to  see  her,  I  hope  you'll " 

Gyp  was  gone.  In  her  cab  she  shivered.  Once 
she  had  lunched  with  her  father  at  a  restaurant  in 
the  Strand.  It  had  been  full  of  Mr.  Wagges.  But, 
suddenly,  she  thought:  'It's  hard  on  him,  poor 
man!' 


XIII 

Seventy-three  Comrade  Street,  Soho,  was  diffi- 
cult to  find;  but,  with  the  aid  of  a  milk-boy,  Gyp 
discovered  the  alley  at  last,  and  the  right  door. 
There  her  pride  took  sudden  alarm,  and  but  for  the 
milk-boy's  eyes  fixed  on  her  while  he  let  out  his  pro- 
fessional howl,  she  might  have  fled.  A  plump  white 
hand  and  wrist  emerging  took  the  can,  and  Daphne 
Wing's  voice  said: 

"Oh,  where's  the  cream?" 

"Ain't  got  none." 

"Oh!  I  told  you  always — two  pennyworth  at 
twelve  o'clock." 

"Two  penn'orth."    The  boy's  eyes  goggled. 

"Didn't  you  want  to  speak  to  her,  miss?"  He 
beat  the  closing  door.  "Lidy  wants  to  speak  to 
you !     Good-mornin',  miss." 

The  figure  of  Daphne  Wing  in  a  blue  kimono  was 
revealed.    Her  eyes  peered  round  at  Gyp. 

"Oh!"  she  said. 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"Oh,  yes!  Oh,  do!  I've  been  practising.  Oh, 
I  am  glad  to  see  you !" 

In  the  middle  of  the  studio,  a  little  table  was  laid 
for  two.  Daphne  Wing  went  up  to  it,  holding  in 
one  hand  the  milk-can  and  in  the  other  a  short 
knife,  with  which  she  had  evidently  been  opening 

385 


386  BEYOND 

oysters.  Placing  the  knife  on  the  table,  she  turned 
round  to  Gyp.  Her  face  was  deep  pink,  and  so  was 
her  neck,  which  ran  V-shaped  down  into  the  folds 
of  her  kimono.  Her  eyes,  round  as  saucers,  met 
Gyp's,  fell,  met  them  again.     She  said: 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  I  am  glad!  I  really  am.  I 
wanted  you  so  much  to  see  my  room — do  you  like 
it?  How  did  you  know  where  I  was?"  She  looked 
down  and  added:  " I  think  I'd  better  tell  you.  Mr. 
Fiorsen  came  here,  and,  since  then,  I've  seen  him 
at  Count  Rosek's — and — and " 

"Yes;  but  don't  trouble  to  tell  me,  please." 

Daphne  Wing  hurried  on. 

"Of  course,  I'm  quite  mistress  of  myself  now." 
Then,  all  at  once,  the  uneasy  woman-of-the-world 
mask  dropped  from  her  face  and  she  seized  Gyp's 
hand.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Fiorsen,  I  shall  never  be  like 
you ! " 

With  a  little  shiver,  Gyp  said: 

"I  hope  not."  Her  pride  rushed  up  in  her.  How 
could  she  ask  this  girl  anything?  She  choked  back 
that  feeling,  and  said  stonily:  "Do  you  remember 
my  baby?  No,  of  course;  you  never  saw  her.  He 
and  Count  Rosek  have  just  taken  her  away  from  me." 

Daphne  Wing  convulsively  squeezed  the  hand  of 
which  she  had  possessed  herself. 

"  Oh,  what  a  wicked  thing !    When  ?  " 

"Yesterday  afternoon." 

"Oh,  I  am  glad  I  haven't  seen  him  since!  Oh, 
I  do  think  that  was  wicked !  Aren't  you  dreadfully 
distressed?"    The  least  of  smiles  played  on  Gyp's 


BEYOND  387 

mouth.  Daphne  Wing  burst  forth:  "D'you  know 
— I  think — I  think  your  self-control  is  something 
awful.  It  frightens  me.  If  my  baby  had  lived  and 
been  stolen  like  that,  I  should  have  been  half  dead 
by  now." 

Gyp  answered  stonily  as  ever: 

"Yes;   I  want  her  back,  and  I  wondered " 

Daphne  Wing  clasped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  I  expect  I  can  make  him — "  She  stopped, 
confused,  then  added  hastily:  "Are  you  sure  you 
don't  mind?" 

"I  shouldn't  mind  if  he  had  fifty  loves.  Perhaps 
he  has." 

Daphne  Wing  uttered  a  little  gasp;  then  her  teeth 
came  down  rather  viciously  on  her  lower  Up. 

"I  mean  him  to  do  what  /  want  now,  not  what 
he  wants  me.  That's  the  only  way  when  you  love. 
Oh,  don't  smile  like  that,  please;  you  do  make  me 
feel  so — uncertain." 

"When  are  you  going  to  see  him  next?" 

Daphne  Wing  grew  very  pink. 

"I  don't  know.  He  might  be  coming  in  to  lunch. 
You  see,  it's  not  as  if  he  were  a  stranger,  is  it?" 
Casting  up  her  eyes  a  little,  she  added:  "He  won't 
even  let  me  speak  your  name;  it  makes  him  mad. 
That's  why  I'm  sure  he  still  loves  you;  only,  his 
love  is  so  funny."  And,  seizing  Gyp's  hand:  "I 
shall  never  forget  how  good  you  were  to  me.  I  do 
hope  you — you  love  somebody  else."  Gyp  pressed 
those  damp,  clinging  fingers,  and  Daphne  Wing 
hurried  on:  "I'm  sure  your  baby's  a  darling.    How 


388  BEYOND 

you  must  be  suffering !  You  look  quite  pale.  But 
it  isn't  any  good  suffering.    I  learned  that." 

Her  eyes  lighted  on  the  table,  and  a  faint  rueful- 
ness came  into  them,  as  if  she  were  going  to  ask  Gyp 
to  eat  the  oysters. 

Gyp  bent  forward  and  put  her  lips  to  the  girl's 
forehead. 

"Good-bye.  My  baby  would  thank  you  if  she 
knew." 

And  she  turned  to  go.  She  heard  a  sob.  Daphne 
Wing  was  crying;  then,  before  Gyp  could  speak,  she 
struck  herself  on  the  throat,  and  said,  in  a  strangled 
voice: 

"Tha — that's  idiotic!  I — I  haven't  cried  since — 
since,  you  know.  I — I'm  perfect  mistress  of  my- 
self; only,  I — only — I  suppose  you  reminded  me — 
I  never  cry ! " 

Those  words  and  the  sound  of  a  hiccough  accom- 
panied Gyp  down  the  alley  to  her  cab. 

When  she  got  back  to  Bury  Street,  she  found 
Betty  sitting  in  the  hall  with  her  bonnet  on.  She 
had  not  been  sent  for,  nor  had  any  reply  come  from 
Newmarket.  Gyp  could  not  eat,  could  settle  to 
nothing.  She  went  up  to  her  bedroom  to  get  away 
from  the  servants'  eyes,  and  went  on  mechanic- 
ally with  a  frock  of  little  Gyp's  she  had  begun  on 
the  fatal  morning  Fiorsen  had  come  back.  Every 
other  minute  she  stopped  to  listen  to  sounds  that 
never  meant  anything,  went  a  hundred  times  to  the 
window  to  look  at  nothing.  Betty,  too,  had  come 
upstairs,  and  was  in   the  nursery  opposite;    Gyp 


BEYOND  389 

could  hear  her  moving  about  restlessly  among  her 
household  gods.  Presently,  those  sounds  ceased, 
and,  peering  into  the  room,  she  saw  the  stout  woman 
still  in  her  bonnet,  sitting  on  a  trunk,  with  her  back 
turned,  uttering  heavy  sighs.  Gyp  stole  back  into 
her  own  room  with  a  sick,  trembling  sensation.  If 
— if  her  baby  really  could  not  be  recovered  except 
by  that  sacrifice !  If  that  cruel  letter  were  the  last 
word,  and  she  forced  to  decide  between  them ! 
Which  would  she  give  up  ?  Which  follow — her  lover 
or  her  child? 

She  went  to  the  window  for  air — the  pain  about 
her  heart  was  dreadful.  And,  leaning  there  against 
the  shutter,  she  felt  quite  dizzy  from  the  violence  of 
a  struggle  that  refused  coherent  thought  or  feeling, 
and  was  just  a  dumb  pull  of  instincts,  both  so  ter- 
ribly strong — how  terribly  strong  she  had  not  till 
then  perceived. 

Her  eyes  fell  on  the  picture  that  reminded  her  of 
Bryan;  it  seemed  now  to  have  no  resemblance — 
none.  He  was  much  too  real,  and  loved,  and  wanted. 
Less  than  twenty-four  hours  ago,  she  had  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to  his  pleading  that  she  should  go  to  him 
for  ever.  How  funny !  Would  she  not  rush  to  him 
now — go  when  and  where  he  liked  ?  Ah,  if  only  she 
were  back  in  his  arms!  Never  could  she  give  him 
up — never !  But  then  in  her  ears  sounded  the  coo- 
ing words,  "Dear  mum!"  Her  baby — that  tiny 
thing — how  could  she  give  her  up,  and  never  again 
hold  close  and  kiss  that  round,  perfect  little  body, 
that  grave  little  dark-eyed  face? 


390  BEYOND 

The  roar  of  London  came  in  through  the  open 
window.  So  much  life,  so  many  people — and  not 
a  soul  could  help!  She  left  the  window  and  went 
to  the  cottage-piano  she  had  there,  out  of  Winton's 
way.  But  she  only  sat  with  arms  folded,  looking 
at  the  keys.  The  song  that  girl  had  sung  at  Fior- 
sen's  concert — song  of  the  broken  heart — came  back 
to  her. 

No,  no;  she  couldn't — couldn't!  It  was  to  her 
lover  she  would  cling.  And  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks. 

A  cab  had  stopped  below,  but  not  till  Betty  came 
rushing  in  did  she  look  up. 


XIV 

When,  trembling  all  over,  she  entered  the  dining- 
room,  Fiorsen  was  standing  by  the  sideboard,  hold- 
ing the  child. 

He  came  straight  up  and  put  her  into  Gyp's  arms. 

"Take  her,"  he  said,  "and  do  what  you  will.  Be 
happy." 

Hugging  her  baby,  close  to  the  door  as  she  could 
get,  Gyp  answered  nothing.  Her  heart  was  in  such 
a  tumult  that  she  could  not  have  spoken  a  word  to 
save  her  life;  relieved,  as  one  dying  of  thirst  by  un- 
expected water;  grateful,  bewildered,  abashed,  yet 
instinctively  aware  of  something  evanescent  and  un- 
real in  his  altruism.  Daphne  Wing !  What  bar- 
gain did  this  represent? 

Fiorsen  must  have  felt  the  chill  of  this  instinctive 
vision,  for  he  cried  out: 

"Yes!  You  never  believed  in  me;  you  never 
thought  me  capable  of  good !    Why  didn't  you?" 

Gyp  bent  her  face  over  her  baby  to  hide  the  quiver- 
ing of  her  lips. 

"I  am  sorry — very,  very  sorry." 

Fiorsen  came  closer  and  looked  into  her  face. 

"By  God,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  forget  you — 
never ! " 

Tears  had  come  into  his  eyes,  and  Gyp  watched 
them,  moved,  troubled,  but  still  deeply  mistrusting. 

391 


392  BEYOND 

He  brushed  his  hand  across  his  face;  and  the 
thought  flashed  through  her:  'He  means  me  to  see 
them !    Ah,  what  a  cynical  wretch  I  am ! ' 

Fiorsen  saw  that  thought  pass,  and  muttering 
suddenly : 

"  Good-bye,  Gyp !  I  am  not  all  bad.  /  am  not  I " 
He  tore  the  door  open  and  was  gone. 

That  passionate  "I  am  not!"  saved  Gyp  from  a 
breakdown.  No;  even  at  his  highest  pitch  of  ab- 
negation, he  could  not  forget  himself. 

Relief,  if  overwhelming,  is  slowly  realized;  but 
when,  at  last,  what  she  had  escaped  and  what  lay 
before  her  were  staring  full  in  each  other's  face,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  must  cry  out,  and  tell  the 
whole  world  of  her  intoxicating  happiness.  And 
the  moment  little  Gyp  was  in  Betty's  arms,  she  sat 
down  and  wrote  to  Summerhay: 

"  Darling, 

"  I've  had  a  fearful  time.  My  baby  was  stolen  by  him 
while  I  was  with  you.  He  wrote  me  a  letter  saying  that  he 
would  give  her  back  to  me  if  I  gave  you  up.  But  I  found 
I  couldn't  give  you  up,  not  even  for  my  baby.  And  then, 
a  few  minutes  ago,  he  brought  her — none  the  worse.  To- 
morrow we  shall  all  go  down  to  Mildenham;  but  very  soon, 
if  you  still  want  me,  I'll  come  with  you  wherever  you  like. 
My  father  and  Betty  will  take  care  of  my  treasure  till  we 
come  back;  and  then,  perhaps,  the  old  red  house  we  saw — 
after  all.  Only — now  is  the  time  for  you  to  draw  back. 
Look  into  the  future — look  far!  Don't  let  any  foolish  pity 
— or  honour — weigh  with  you;  be  utterly  sure,  I  do  beseech 
you.  I  can  just  bear  it  now  if  I  know  it's  for  your  good. 
But  afterward  it'll  be  too  late.     It  would  be  the  worst  misery 


BEYOND  393 

of  all  if  I  made  you  unhappy.  Oh,  make  sure — make  sure ! 
I  shall  understand.  I  mean  this  with  every  bit  of  me. 
And  now,  good-night,  and  perhaps — good-bye. 

"Your 

"  Gyp." 

She  read  it  over  and  shivered.  Did  she  really 
mean  that  she  could  bear  it  if  he  drew  back — if  he 
did  look  far,  far  into  the  future,  and  decided  that  she 
was  not  worth  the  candle?  Ah,  but  better  now — 
than  later. 

She  closed  and  sealed  the  letter,  and  sat  down  to 
wait  for  her  father.  And  she  thought:  'Why  does 
one  have  a  heart?  Why  is  there  in  one  something 
so  much  too  soft?' 

Ten  days  later,  at  Mildenham  station,  holding  her 
father's  hand,  Gyp  could  scarcely  see  him  for  the 
mist  before  her  eyes.  How  good  he  had  been  to 
her  all  those  last  days,  since  she  told  him  that  she 
was  going  to  take  the  plunge !  Not  a  word  of  re- 
monstrance or  complaint. 

"Good-bye,  my  love!  Take  care  of  yourself; 
wire  from  London,  and  again  from  Paris."  And, 
smiling  up  at  her,  he  added:  "He  has  luck;  I  had 
none." 

The  mist  became  tears,  rolled  down,  fell  on  his 
glove. 

"Not  too  long  out  there,  Gyp!" 

She  pressed  her  wet  cheek  passionately  to  his. 
The  train  moved,  but,  so  long  as  she  could  see,  she 
watched  him  standing  on  the  platform,  waving  his 


394  BEYOND 

grey  hat,  then,  in  her  corner,  sat  down,  blinded 
with  tears  behind  her  veil.  She  had  not  cried  when 
she  left  him  the  day  of  her  fatal  marriage;  she 
cried  now  that  she  was  leaving  him  to  go  to  her 
incredible  happiness. 

Strange !    But  her  heart  had  grown  since  then. 


PART   IV 


Little  Gyp,  aged  nearly  four  and  a  half  that  first 
of  May,  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  tulip  border,  bow- 
ing to  two  hen  turkeys  who  were  poking  their 
heads  elegantly  here  and  there  among  the  flowers. 
She  was  absurdly  like  her  mother,  the  same  oval- 
shaped  face,  dark  arched  brows,  large  and  clear 
brown  eyes;  but  she  had  the  modern  child's  open- 
air  look;  her  hair,  that  curled  over  at  the  ends,  was 
not  allowed  to  be  long,  and  her  polished  brown  legs 
were  bare  to  the  knees. 

"Turkeys!  You  aren't  good,  are  you?  Come 
on  I"  And,  stretching  out  her  hands  with  the  palms 
held  up,  she  backed  away  from  the  tiilip-bed.  The 
turkeys,  trailing  delicately  their  long-toed  feet  and 
uttering  soft,  liquid  interrogations,  moved  after  her 
in  hopes  of  what  she  was  not  holding  in  her  little 
brown  hands.  The  sun,  down  in  the  west,  for  it 
was  past  tea-time,  slanted  from  over  the  roof  of  the 
red  house,  and  painted  up  that  small  procession — 
the  deep  blue  frock  of  little  Gyp,  the  glint  of  gold 
in  the  chestnut  of  her  hair;  the  daisy-starred  grass; 
the  dark  birds  with  translucent  red  dewlaps,  and 
checkered  tails  and  the  tulip  background,  puce  and 
red  and  yellow.  When  she  had  lured  them  to  the 
open  gate,  little  Gyp  raised  herself,  and  said: 

"Aren't  you  duffies,  dears?  Shoo!"  And  on 
the  tails  of  the  turkeys  she  shut  the  gate.    Then  she 

397 


398  BEYOND 

went  to  where,  under  the  walnut-tree — the  one  large 
tree  of  that  walled  garden — a  very  old  Scotch  ter- 
rier was  lying,  and  sitting  down  beside  him,  began 
stroking  his  white  muzzle,  saying: 

"Ossy,  Ossy,  do  you  love  me?" 

Presently,  seeing  her  mother  in  the  porch,  she 
jumped  up,  and  crying  out :  "  Ossy — Ossy !  Walk ! " 
rushed  to  Gyp  and  embraced  her  legs,  while  the  old 
Scotch  terrier  slowly  followed. 

Thus  held  prisoner,  Gyp  watched  the  dog's  ap- 
proach. Nearly  three  years  had  changed  her  a 
little.  Her  face  was  softer,  and  rather  more  grave, 
her  form  a  little  fuller,  her  hair,  if  anything,  darker, 
and  done  differently — instead  of  waving  in  wings 
and  being  coiled  up  behind,  it  was  smoothly  gathered 
round  in  a  soft  and  lustrous  helmet,  by  which  fashion 
the  shape  of  her  head  was  better  revealed. 

"Darling,  go  and  ask  Pettance  to  put  a  fresh 
piece  of  sulphur  in  Ossy's  water-bowl,  and  to  cut 
up  his  meat  finer.  You  can  give  Hotspur  and 
Brownie  two  lumps  of  sugar  each;  and  then  we'll  go 
out."  Going  down  on  her  knees  in  the  porch,  she 
parted  the  old  dog's  hair,  and  examined  his  eczema, 
thinking:  "I  must  rub  some  more  of  that  stuff  in 
to-night.  Oh,  ducky,  you're  not  smelling  your 
best!    Yes;  only — not  my  face!" 

A  telegraph-boy  was  coming  from  the  gate.  Gyp 
opened  the  missive  with  the  faint  tremor  she  always 
felt  when  Summerhay  was  not  with  her. 

"Detained;  shall  be  down  by  last  train;  need  not  come 
up  to-morrow. — Bryan." 


BEYOND  399 

When  the  boy  was  gone,  she  stooped  down  and 
stroked  the  old  dog's  head. 

"Master  home  all  day  to-morrow,  Ossy — master 
home!" 

A  voice  from  the  path  said,  "Beautiful  evenin', 
ma'am." 

The  "old  scoundrel,"  Pettance,  stiffer  in  the  ankle- 
joints,  with  more  lines  in  his  gargoyle's  face,  fewer 
stumps  in  his  gargoyle's  mouth,  more  film  over  his 
dark,  burning  little  eyes,  was  standing  before  her, 
and,  behind  him,  little  Gyp,  one  foot  rather  before 
the  other,  as  Gyp  had  been  wont  to  stand,  waited 
gravely. 

"Oh,  Pettance,  Mr.  Summerhay  will  be  at  home 
all  to-morrow,  and  we'll  go  a  long  ride:  and  when 
you  exercise,  will  you  call  at  the  inn,  in  case  I  don't 
go  that  way,  and  tell  Major  Winton  I  expect  him 
to  dinner  to-night?" 

"Yes,  ma'am;  and  I've  seen  the  pony  for  little 
Miss  Gyp  this  morning,  ma'am.  It's  a  mouse  pony, 
five  year  old,  sound,  good  temper,  pretty  little  paces. 
I  says  to  the  man:  'Don't  you  come  it  over  me,'  I 
says;  'I  was  born  on  an  'orse.  Talk  of  twenty 
pounds,  for  that  pony !  Ten,  and  lucky  to  get  it ! ' 
'Well,'  he  says,  'Pettance,  it's  no  good  to  talk  round 
an'  round  with  you.  Fifteen ! '  he  says.  '  I'll  throw 
you  one  in,'  I  says,  'Eleven!  Take  it  or  leave  it.' 
'Ah!'  he  says,  'Pettance,  you  know  'ow  to  buy  an 
'orse.  All  right,'  he  says;  'twelve!'  She's  worth 
all  of  fifteen,  ma'am,  and  the  major's  passed  her. 
So  if  you  likes  to  have  'er,  there  she  is ! " 


400  BEYOND 

Gyp  looked  at  her  little  daughter,  who  had  given 
one  excited  hop,  but  now  stood  still,  her  eyes  flying 
up  at  her  mother  and  her  lips  parted;  and  she 
thought:  "The  darling!  She  never  begs  for  any- 
thing!" 

"Very  well,  Pettance;  buy  her." 
The  "old  scoundrel"  touched  his  forelock: 
"Yes,  ma'am — very  good,  ma'am.  Beautiful 
evening  ma'am."  And,  withdrawing  at  his  gait  of 
one  whose  feet  are  at  permanent  right  angles  to  the 
legs,  he  mused:  'And  that'll  be  two  in  my  pocket.' 
Ten  minutes  later  Gyp,  little  Gyp,  and  Ossian 
emerged  from  the  garden  gate  for  their  evening 
walk.  They  went,  not  as  usual,  up  to  the  downs, 
but  toward  the  river,  making  for  what  they  called 
"the  wild."  This  was  an  outlying  plot  of  neglected 
ground  belonging  to  their  farm,  two  sedgy  meadows, 
hedged  by  banks  on  which  grew  oaks  and  ashes. 
An  old  stone  linhay,  covered  to  its  broken  thatch 
by  a  huge  ivy  bush,  stood  at  the  angle  where  the 
meadows  met.  The  spot  had  a  strange  life  to  it- 
self in  that  smooth,  kempt  countryside  of  cornfields, 
grass,  and  beech-clumps;  it  was  favoured  by  beasts 
and  birds,  and  little  Gyp  had  recently  seen  two  baby 
hares  there.  From  an  oak-tree,  where  the  crinkled 
leaves  were  not  yet  large  enough  to  hide  him,  a 
cuckoo  was  calling  and  they  stopped  to  look  at  the 
grey  bird  till  he  flew  off.  The  singing  and  serenity, 
the  green  and  golden  oaks  and  ashes,  the  flowers 
— marsh-orchis,  ladies'  smocks,  and  cuckoo-buds, 
starring  the  rushy  grass — all  brought  to  Gyp  that 


BEYOND  401 

feeling  of  the  uncapturable  spirit  which  lies  behind 
the  forms  of  nature,  the  shadowy,  hovering  smile  of 
life  that  is  ever  vanishing  and  ever  springing  again 
out  of  death.  While  they  stood  there  close  to  the 
old  linhay  a  bird  came  flying  round  them  in  wide 
circles,  uttering  shrill  cries.  It  had  a  long  beak  and 
long,  pointed  wings,  and  seemed  distressed  by  their 
presence.     Little  Gyp  squeezed  her  mother's  hand. 

"Poor  bird !    Isn't  it  a  poor  bird,  mum?" 

"Yes,  dear,  it's  a  curlew — I  wonder  what's  the 
matter  with  it.     Perhaps  its  mate  is  hurt." 

"What  is  its  mate?" 

"The  bird  it  lives  with." 

"It's  afraid  of  us.  It's  not  like  other  birds.  Is 
it  a  real  bird,  mum?    Or  one  out  of  the  sky?" 

"I  think  it's  real.  Shall  we  go  on  and  see  if  we 
can  find  out  what's  the  matter?" 

"Yes." 

They  went  on  into  the  sedgy  grass  and  the  cur- 
lew continued  to  circle,  vanishing  and  reappearing 
from  behind  the  trees,  always  uttering  those  shrill 
cries.    Little  Gyp  said: 

"Mum,  could  we  speak  to  it?  Because  we're  not 
going  to  hurt  nothing,  are  we?" 

"Of  course  not,  darling !  But  I'm  afraid  the  poor 
bird's  too  wild.  Try,  if  you  like.  Call  to  it: 
'Courlie!     Courlie!'" 

Little  Gyp's  piping  joined  the  curlew's  cries  and 
other  bird-songs  in  the  bright  shadowy  quiet  of  the 
evening  till  Gyp  said: 

"Oh,  look;   it's  dipping  close  to  the  ground,  over 


402  BEYOND 

there  in  that  corner — it's  got  a  nest !  We  won't  go 
near,  will  we?" 

Little  Gyp  echoed  in  a  hushed  voice: 

"It's  got  a  nest." 

They  stole  back  out  of  the  gate  close  to  the  linhay, 
the  curlew  still  flighting  and  crying  behind  them. 

"Aren't  we  glad  the  mate  isn't  hurt,  mum?" 

Gyp  answered  with  a  shiver: 

"Yes,  darling,  fearfully  glad.  Now  then,  shall 
we  go  down  and  ask  Grandy  to  come  up  to  dinner  ?  " 

Little  Gyp  hopped.  And  they  went  toward  the 
river. 

At  "The  Bowl  of  Cream,"  Winton  had  for  two 
years  had  rooms,  which  he  occupied  as  often  as  his 
pursuits  permitted.  He  had  refused  to  make  his 
home  with  Gyp,  desiring  to  be  on  hand  only  when 
she  wanted  him;  and  a  simple  life  of  it  he  led  in 
those  simple  quarters,  riding  with  her  when  Summer- 
hay  was  in  town,  visiting  the  cottagers,  smoking 
cigars,  laying  plans  for  the  defence  of  his  daughter's 
position,  and  devoting  himself  to  the  whims  of  little 
Gyp.  This  moment,  when  his  grandchild  was  to 
begin  to  ride,  was  in  a  manner  sacred  to  one  for 
whom  life  had  scant  meaning  apart  from  horses. 
Looking  at  them,  hand  in  hand,  Gyp  thought:  'Dad 
loves  her  as  much  as  he  loves  me  now — more,  I  think.' 

Lonely  dinner  at  the  inn  was  an  infliction  which 
he  studiously  concealed  from  Gyp,  so  he  accepted 
their  invitation  without  alacrity,  and  they  walked 
on  up  the  hill,  with  little  Gyp  in  the  middle,  sup- 
ported by  a  hand  on  each  side. ; 


BEYOND  403 

The  Red  House  contained  nothing  that  had  been 
in  Gyp's  married  home  except  the  piano.  It  had 
white  walls,  furniture  of  old  oak,  and  for  pictures 
reproductions  of  her  favourites.  "The  Death  of 
Procris"  hung  in  the  dining-room.  Winton  never 
failed  to  scrutinize  it  when  he  came  in  tp  a  meal — 
that  "deuced  rum  affair"  appeared  to  have  a  fas- 
cination for  him.  He  approved  of  the  dining-room 
altogether;  its  narrow  oak  "last  supper"  table 
made  gay  by  a  strip  of  blue  linen,  old  brick  hearth, 
casement  windows  hung  with  flowered  cirrtains — all 
had  a  pleasing  austerity,  uncannily  redeemed  to 
softness.  He  got  on  well  enough  with  Summerhay, 
but  he  enjoyed  himself  much  more  when  he  was 
there  alone  with  his  daughter.  And  this  evening 
he  was  especially  glad  to  have  her  to  himself,  for 
she  had  seemed  of  late  rather  grave  and  absent- 
minded.  When  dinner  was  over  and  they  were  un- 
disturbed, he  said: 

"It  must  be  pretty  dull  for  you,  my  dear,  some- 
times.    I  wish  you  saw  more  people." 

"Oh  no,  Dad." 

Watching  her  smile,  he  thought:  'That's  not 
"sour  grapes" — What  is  the  trouble,  then?* 

"I  suppose  you've  not  heard  anything  of  that 
fellow  Fiorsen  lately?" 

"Not  a  word.  But  he's  playing  again  in  London 
this  season,  I  see." 

"Is  he?  Ah,  that'll  cheer  them."  And  he 
thought:  'It's  not  that,  then.  But  there's  some- 
thing— I'll  swear ! ' 


404  BEYOND 

"I  hear  that  Bryan's  going  ahead.  I  met  a  man 
in  town  last  week  who  spoke  of  him  as  about  the 
most  promising  junior  at  the  bar." 

"Yes;  he's  doing  awfully  well."  And  a  sound 
like  a  faint  sigh  caught  his  ears.  "Would  you  say 
he's  changed  much  since  you  knew  him,  Dad?" 

"I  don't  know — perhaps  a  little  less  jokey." 

"Yes;  he's  lost  his  laugh." 

It  was  very  evenly  and  softly  said,  yet  it  affected 
Winton. 

"Can't  expect  him  to  keep  that,"  he  answered, 
"turning  people  inside  out,  day  after  day — and  most 
of  them  rotten.    By  George,  what  a  life ! " 

But  when  he  had  left  her,  strolling  back  in  the 
bright  moonlight,  he  reverted  to  his  suspicions  and 
wished  he  had  said  more  directly:  "Look  here,  Gyp, 
are  you  worrying  about  Bryan — or  have  people  been 
making  themselves  unpleasant?" 

He  had,  in  these  last  three  years,  become  uncon- 
sciously inimical  to  his  own  class  and  their  imitators, 
and  more  than  ever  friendly  to  the  poor — visiting  the 
labourers,  small  farmers,  and  small  tradesmen,  doing 
them  little  turns  when  he  could,  giving  their  chil- 
dren sixpences,  and  so  forth.  The  fact  that  they 
could  not  afford  to  put  on  airs  of  virtue  escaped 
him;  he  perceived  only  that  they  were  respectful  and 
friendly  to  Gyp  and  this  warmed  his  heart  toward 
them  in  proportion  as  he  grew  exasperated  with  the 
two  or  three  landed  families,  and  that  parvenu  lot  in 
the  riverside  villas. 

When  he  first  came  down,  the  chief  landowner — 


BEYOND  405 

a  man  he  had  known  for  years — had  invited  him  to 
lunch.  He  had  accepted  with  the  deliberate  inten- 
tion of  finding  out  where  he  was,  and  had  taken  the 
first  natural  opportunity  of  mentioning  his  daughter. 
She  was,  he  said,  devoted  to  her  flowers;  the  Red 
House  had  quite  a  good  garden.  His  friend's  wife, 
slightly  lifting  her  brows,  had  answered  with  a 
nervous  smile:  "Oh!  yes;  of  course — yes."  A  si- 
lence had,  not  unnaturally,  fallen.  Since  then, 
Winton  had  saluted  his  friend  and  his  friend's  wife 
with  such  frigid  politeness  as  froze  the  very  marrow 
in  their  bones.  He  had  not  gone  there  fishing  for 
Gyp  to  be  called  on,  but  to  show  these  people  that 
his  daughter  could  not  be  slighted  with  impunity. 
Foolish  of  him,  for,  man  of  the  world  to  his  finger- 
tips, he  knew  perfectly  well  that  a  woman  living 
with  a  man  to  whom  she  was  not  married  could 
not  be  recognized  by  people  with  any  pretensions  to 
orthodoxy;  Gyp  was  beyond  even  the  debatable 
ground  on  which  stood  those  who  have  been  divorced 
and  are  married  again.  But  even  a  man  of  the 
world  is  not  proof  against  the  warping  of  devotion, 
and  Winton  was  ready  to  charge  any  windmill  at 
any  moment  on  her  behalf. 

Outside  the  inn  door,  exhaling  the  last  puffs  of 
his  good-night  cigarette,  he  thought :  '  What  wouldn't 
I  give  for  the  old  days,  and  a  chance  to  wing  some 
of  these  moral  upstarts ! ' 


II 

The  last  train  was  not  due  till  eleven-thirty,  and 
having  seen  that  the  evening  tray  had  sandwiches, 
Gyp  went  to  Summerhay's  study,  the  room  at  right 
angles  to  the  body  of  the  house,  over  which  was  their 
bedroom.  Here,  if  she  had  nothing  to  do,  she  always 
came  when  he  was  away,  feeling  nearer  to  him. 
She  would  have  been  horrified  if  she  had  known  of 
her  father's  sentiments  on  her  behalf.  Her  instant 
denial  of  the  wish  to  see  more  people  had  been  quite 
genuine.  The  conditions  of  her  life,  in  that  respect, 
often  seemed  to  her  ideal.  It  was  such  a  joy  to  be 
free  of  people  one  did  not  care  two  straws  about, 
and  of  all  empty  social  functions.  Everything  she 
had  now  was  real — love,  and  nature,  riding,  music, 
animals,  and  poor  people.  What  else  was  worth 
having  ?  She  would  not  have  changed  for  anything. 
It  often  seemed  to  her  that  books  and  plays  about 
the  unhappiness  of  women  in  her  position  were  all 
false.  If  one  loved,  what  could  one  want  better? 
Such  women^  if  unhappy,  could  have  no  pride;  or 
else  could  not  really  love!  She  had  recently  been 
reading  "Anna  Karenina,"  and  had  often  said  to 
herself:  "There's  something  not  true  about  it — as 
if  Tolstoy  wanted  to  make  us  believe  that  Anna  was 
secretly  feeling  remorse.     If  one  loves,  one  doesn't 

406 


BEYOND  407 

feel  remorse.  Even  if  my  baby  had  been  taken 
away,  I  shouldn't  have  felt  remorse.  One  gives 
oneself  to  love — or  one  does  not." 

She  even  derived  a  positive  joy  from  the  feeling 
that  her  love  imposed  a  sort  of  isolation;  she  liked 
to  be  apart — for  him.  Besides,  by  her  very  birth 
she  was  outside  the  fold  of  society,  her  love  beyond 
the  love  of  those  within  it — just  as  her  father's  love 
had  been.  And  her  pride  was  greater  than  theirs, 
too.  How  could  women  mope  and  moan  because 
they  were  cast  out,  and  try  to  scratch  their  way 
back  where  they  were  not  welcome?  How  could 
any  woman  do  that?  Sometimes,  she  wondered 
whether,  if  Fiorsen  died,  she  would  marry  her  lover. 
What  difference  would  it  make?  She  could  not 
love  him  more.  It  would  only  make  him  feel,  per- 
haps, too  sure  of  her,  make  it  all  a  matter  of  course. 
For  herself,  she  would  rather  go  on  as  she  was.  But 
for  him,  she  was  not  certain,  of  late  had  been  less 
and  less  certain.  He  was  not  bound  now,  could 
leave  her  when  he  tired !  And  yet — did  he  per- 
haps feel  himself  more  bound  than  if  they  were  mar- 
ried— unfairly  bound  ?  It  was  this  thought — barely 
more  than  the  shadow  of  a  thought — which  had 
given  her,  of  late,  the  extra  gravity  noticed  by  her 
father. 

In  that  unlighted  room  with  the  moonbeams  drift- 
ing in,  she  sat  down  at  Summerhay's  bureau,  where 
he  often  worked  too  late  at  his  cases,  depriving  her 
of  himself.  She  sat  there  resting  her  elbows  on  the 
bare  wood,  crossing  her  finger-tips,  gazing  out  into 


408  BEYOND 

the  moonlight,  her  mind  drifting  on  a  stream  of 
memories  that  seemed  to  have  beginning  only  from 
the  year  when  he  came  into  her  life.  A  smile  crept 
out  on  her  face,  and  now  and  then  she  uttered  a 
little  sigh  of  contentment. 

So  many  memories,  nearly  all  happy!  Surely, 
the  most  adroit  work  of  the  jeweller  who  put  the 
human  soul  together  was  his  provision  of  its  power 
to  forget  the  dark  and  remember  sunshine.  The 
year  and  a  half  of  her  life  with  Fiorsen,  the  empty 
months  that  followed  it  were  gone,  dispersed  like 
mist  by  the  radiance  of  the  last  three  years  in  whose 
sky  had  hung  just  one  cloud,  no  bigger  than  a  hand, 
of  doubt  whether  Summerhay  really  loved  her  as 
much  as  she  loved  him,  whether  from  her  company 
he  got  as  much  as  the  all  she  got  from  his.  She 
would  not  have  been  her  distrustful  self  if  she  could 
have  settled  down  in  complacent  security;  and  her 
mind  was  ever  at  stretch  on  that  point,  comparing 
past  days  and  nights  with  the  days  and  nights  of  the 
present.  Her  prevision  that,  when  she  loved,  it 
would  be  desperately,  had  been  fulfilled.  He  had 
become  her  life.  When  this  befalls  one  whose  be- 
setting strength  and  weakness  alike  is  pride — no 
wonder  that  she  doubts. 

For  their  Odyssey  they  had  gone  to  Spain — that 
brown  un-European  land  of  "lyrio"  flowers,  and 
cries  of  "Agua!"  in  the  streets,  where  the  men 
seem  cleft  to  the  waist  when  they  are  astride  of 
horses,  under  their  wide  black  hats,  and  the  black- 
clothed  women  with  wonderful  eyes  still  look  as  if 


BEYOND  409 

they  missed  their  Eastern  veils.  It  had  been  a 
month  of  gaiety  and  glamour,  last  days  of  Septem- 
ber and  early  days  of  October,  a  revel  of  enchanted 
wanderings  in  the  streets  of  Seville,  of  embraces  and 
laughter,  of  strange  scents  and  stranger  sounds,  of 
orange  light  and  velvety  shadows,  and  all  the  warmth 
and  deep  gravity  of  Spain.  The  Alcazar,  the 
cigarette-girls,  the  Gipsy  dancers  of  Triana,  the  old 
brown  ruins  to  which  they  rode,  the  streets,  and  the 
square  with  its  grave  talkers  sitting  on  benches  in 
the  sun,  the  water-sellers  and  the  melons;  the  mules, 
and  the  dark  ragged  man  out  of  a  dream,  picking 
up  the  ends  of  cigarettes,  the  wine  of  Malaga,  burnt 
fire  and  honey !  Seville  had  bewitched  them — they 
got  no  further.  They  had  come  back  across  the 
brown  uplands  of  Castile  to  Madrid  and  Goya  and 
Velasquez,  till  it  was  time  for  Paris,  before  the  law- 
term  began.  There,  in  a  queer  little  French  hotel 
— all  bedrooms,  and  a  lift,  coffee  and  carved  beds, 
wood  fires,  and  a  chambermaid  who  seemed  all 
France,  and  down  below  a  restaurant,  to  which  such 
as  knew  about  eating  came,  with  waiters  who  looked 
like  monks,  both  fat  and  lean — they  had  spent  a 
week.  Three  special  memories  of  that  week  started 
up  in  the  moonlight  before  Gyp's  eyes:  The  long 
drive  in  the  Bois  among  the  falling  leaves  of  trees 
flashing  with  colour  in  the  crisp  air  under  a  brilliant 
sky.  A  moment  in  the  Louvre  before  the  Leo- 
nardo "Bacchus,"  when — his  "restored"  pink  skin 
forgotten — all  the  world  seemed  to  drop  away  while 
she  listened,  with  the  listening  figure  before  her,  to 


410  BEYOND 

some  mysterious  music  of  growing  flowers  and  secret 
life.  And  that  last  most  disconcerting  memory,  of 
the  night  before  they  returned.  They  were  having 
supper  after  the  theatre  in  their  restaurant,  when, 
in  a  mirror  she  saw  three  people  come  in  and  take 
seats  at  a  table  a  little  way  behind — Fiorsen,  Rosek, 
and  Daphne  Wing !  How  she  managed  to  show  no 
sign  she  never  knew!  While  they  were  ordering, 
she  was  safe,  for  Rosek  was  a  gourmet,  and  the  girl 
would  certainly  be  hungry;  but  after  that,  she  knew 
that  nothing  could  save  her  being  seen — Rosek  would 
mark  down  every  woman  in  the  room !  Should  she 
pretend  to  feel  faint  and  slip  out  into  the  hotel? 
Or  let  Bryan  know?  Or  sit  there  laughing  and 
talking,  eating  and  drinking,  as  if  nothing  were  be- 
hind her? 

Her  own  face  in  the  mirror  had  a  flush,  and  her 
eyes  were  bright.  When  they  saw  her,  they  would 
see  that  she  was  happy,  safe  in  her  love.  Her  foot 
sought  Summerhay's  beneath  the  table.  How  splen- 
did and  brown  and  fit  he  looked,  compared  with 
those  two  pale,  towny  creatures !  And  he  was  gaz- 
ing at  her  as  though  just  discovering  her  beauty. 
How  could  she  ever — that  man  with  his  little  beard 
and  his  white  face  and  those  eyes — how  could  she 
ever!  Ugh!  And  then,  in  the  mirror,  she  saw 
Rosek's  dark-circled  eyes  fasten  on  her  and  betray 
their  recognition  by  a  sudden  gleam,  saw  his  lips 
compressed,  and  a  faint  red  come  up  in  his  cheeks. 
What  would  he  do?  The  girl's  back  was  turned — 
her  perfect  back — and  she  was  eating.    And  Fior- 


BEYOND  411 

sen  was  staring  straight  before  him  in  that  moody 
way  she  knew  so  well.  All  depended  on  that  deadly 
little  man,  who  had  once  kissed  her  throat.  A  sick 
feeling  seized  on  Gyp.  If  her  lover  knew  that  within 
five  yards  of  him  were  those  two  men !  But  she  still 
smiled  and  talked,  and  touched  his  foot.  Rosek  had 
seen  that  she  was  conscious — was  getting  from  it  a 
kind  of  satisfaction.  She  saw  him  lean  over  and 
whisper  to  the  girl,  and  Daphne  Wing  turning  to 
look,  and  her  mouth  opening  for  a  smothered  "Oh !" 
Gyp  saw  her  give  an  uneasy  glance  at  Fiorsen,  and 
then  begin  again  to  eat.  Surely  she  would  want  to 
get  away  before  he  saw.  Yes;  very  soon  she  rose. 
What  little  airs  of  the  world  she  had  now — quite 
mistress  of  the  situation !  The  wrap  must  be  placed 
exactly  on  her  shoulders;  and  how  she  walked, 
giving  just  one  startled  look  back  from  the  door. 
Gone!    The  ordeal  over !    And  Gyp  said: 

"Let's  go  up,  darling." 

She  felt  as  if  they  had  both  escaped  a  deadly  peril 
— not  from  anything  those  two  could  do  to  him  or 
her,  but  from  the  cruel  ache  and  jealousy  of  the  past, 
which  the  sight  of  that  man  would  have  brought  him. 

Women,  for  their  age,  are  surely  older  than  men 
— married  women,  at  all  events,  than  men  who  have 
not  had  that  experience.  And  all  through  those 
first  weeks  of  their  life  together,  there  was  a  kind  of 
wise  watchfulness  in  Gyp.  He  was  only  a  boy  in 
knowledge  of  life  as  she  saw  it,  and  though  his  char- 
acter was  so  much  more  decided,  active,  and  insis- 
tent than  her  own,  she  felt  it  lay  with  her  to  shape 


412  BEYOND 

the  course  and  avoid  the  shallows  and  sunken  rocks. 
The  house  they  had  seen  together  near  the  river, 
under  the  Berkshire  downs,  was  still  empty;  and 
while  it  was  being  got  ready,  they  lived  at  a  London 
hotel.  She  had  insisted  that  he  should  tell  no  one 
of  their  life  together.  If  that  must  come,  she  wanted 
to  be  firmly  settled  in,  with  little  Gyp  and  Betty 
and  the  horses,  so  that  it  should  all  be  for  him  as 
much  like  respectable  married  life  as  possible.  But, 
one  day,  in  the  first  week  after  their  return,  while 
in  her  room,  just  back  from  a  long  day's  shopping, 
a  card  was  brought  up  to  her:  "Lady  Summerhay." 
Her  first  impulse  was  to  be  "not  at  home";  her 
second,  "I'd  better  face  it.  Bryan  would  wish  me 
to  see  her!"  When  the  page-boy  was  gone,  she 
turned  to  the  mirror  and  looked  at  herself  doubt- 
fully. She  seemed  to  know  exactly  what  that  tall 
woman  whom  she  had  seen  on  the  platform  would 
think  of  her — too  soft,  not  capable,  not  right  for 
him ! — not  even  if  she  were  legally  his  wife.  And 
touching  her  hair,  laying  a  dab  of  scent  on  her  eye- 
brows, she  turned  and  went  downstairs  fluttering, 
but  outwardly  calm  enough. 

In  the  little  low-roofed  inner  lounge  of  that  old 
hotel,  whose  rooms  were  all  "entirely  renovated," 
Gyp  saw  her  visitor  standing  at  a  table,  rapidly  turn- 
ing the  pages  of  an  illustrated  magazine,  as  people 
will  when  their  minds  are  set  upon  a  coming  opera- 
tion. And  she  thought :  '  I  believe  she's  more  fright- 
ened than  I  am ! ' 

Lady  Summerhay  held  out  a  gloved  hand. 


BEYOND  413 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said.  "I  hope  you'll  for- 
give my  coming.'' 

Gyp  took  the  hand. 

"Thank  you.  It  was  very  good  of  you.  I'm 
sorry  Bryan  isn't  in  yet.     Will  you  have  some  tea  ?  " 

"I've  had  tea ;  but  do  let's  sit  down.  How  do  you 
find  the  hotel?" 

"Very  nice." 

On  a  velvet  lounge  that  had  survived  the  renova- 
tion, they  sat  side  by  side,  screwed  round  toward 
each  other. 

"Bryan's  told  me  what  a  pleasant  time  you  had 
abroad.  He's  looking  very  well,  I  think.  I'm  de- 
voted to  him,  you  know." 

Gyp  answered  softly: 

"Yes,  you  must  be."  And  her  heart  felt  suddenly 
as  hard  as  flint. 

Lady  Summerhay  gave  her  a  quick  look. 

"I — I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  being  frank — 
I've  been  so  worried.  It's  an  unhappy  position, 
isn't  it?"  Gyp  did  not  answer,  and  she  hurried  on. 
"If  there's  anything  I  can  do  to  help,  I  should  be 
so  glad — it  must  be  horrid  for  you." 

Gyp  said  very  quietly: 

"Oh !  no.  I'm  perfectly  happy — couldn't  be  hap- 
pier." And  she  thought:  'I  suppose  she  doesn't 
believe  that.' 

Lady  Summerhay  was  looking  at  her  fixedly. 

"One  doesn't  realize  these  things  at  first — neither 
of  you  will,  till  you  see  how  dreadfully  Society  can 
cold-shoulder." 


414  BEYOND 

Gyp  made  an  effort  to  control  a  smile. 

"One  can  only  be  cold-shouldered  if  one  puts 
oneself  in  the  way  of  it.  I  should  never  wish  to  see 
or  speak  to  anyone  who  couldn't  take  me  just  for 
what  I  am.  And  I  don't  really  see  what  difference 
it  will  make  to  Bryan;  most  men  of  his  age  have 
someone,  somewhere."  She  felt  malicious  pleasure 
watching  her  visitor  jib  and  frown  at  the  cynicism 
of  that  soft  speech;  a  kind  of  hatred  had  come  on 
her  of  this  society  woman,  who — disguise  it  as  she 
would — was  at  heart  her  enemy,  who  regarded  her, 
must  regard  her,  as  an  enslaver,  as  a  despoiler  of  her 
son's  worldly  chances,  a  Delilah  dragging  him  down. 
She  said  still  more  quietly:  "He  need  tell  no  one  of 
my  existence;  and  you  can  be  quite  sure  that  if 
ever  he  feels  he's  had  enough  of  me,  he'll  never  be 
troubled  by  the  sight  of  me  again." 

And  she  got  up.    Lady  Summerhay  also  rose. 

"I  hope  you  don't  think — I  really  am  only  too 
anxious  to " 

"I  think  it's  better  to  be  quite  frank.  You  will 
never  like  me,  or  forgive  me  for  ensnaring  Bryan. 
And  so  it  had  better  be,  please,  as  it  would  be  if  I 
were  just  his  common  mistress.  That  will  be  per- 
fectly all  right  for  both  of  us.  It  was  very  good  of 
you  to  come,  though.     Thank  you — and  good-bye." 

Lady  Summerhay  literally  faltered  with  speech 
and  hand. 

With  a  malicious  smile,  Gyp  watched  her  retire- 
ment among  the  little  tables  and  elaborately  mod- 
ern chairs  till  her  tall  figure  had  disappeared  behind 


BEYOND  415 

a  column.  Then  she  sat  down  again  on  the  lounge, 
pressing  her  hands  to  her  burning  ears.  She  had 
never  till  then  known  the  strength  of  the  pride- 
demon  within  her;  at  the  moment,  it  was  almost 
stronger  than  her  love.  She  was  still  sitting  there, 
when  the  page-boy  brought  her  another  card — her 
father's.     She  sprang  up  saying: 

"Yes,  here,  please." 

Winton  came  in  all  brisk  and  elated  at  sight  of 
her  after  this  long  absence;  and,  throwing  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  she  hugged  him  tight.  He  was 
doubly  precious  to  her  after  the  encounter  she  had 
just  gone  through.  When  he  had  given  her  news 
of  Mildenham  and  little  Gyp,  he  looked  at  her 
steadily,  and  said: 

"The  coast'll  be  clear  for  you  both  down  there, 
and  at  Bury  Street,  whenever  you  like  to  come,  Gyp. 
I  shall  regard  this  as  your  real  marriage.  I  shall 
have  the  servants  in  and  make  that  plain." 

A  row  like  family  prayers — and  Dad  standing  up 
very  straight,  saying  in  his  dry  way:  "You  will  be 
so  good  in  future  as  to  remember — "  "I  shall  be 
obliged  if  you  win,"  and  so  on;  Betty's  round  face 
pouting  at  being  brought  in  with  all  the  others; 
Markey's  soft,  inscrutable;  Mrs.  Markey's  demure 
and  goggling;  the  maids' rabbit-faces;  old  Pettance's 
carved  grin  the  film  lifting  from  his  little  burning 
eyes:  "Ha!  Mr.  Bryn  Summer'ay;  he  bought  her 
'orse,  and  so  she's  gone  to  'im!"    And  she  said: 

"Darling,  I  don't  know!  It's  awfully  sweet  of 
you.    We'll  see  later." 


41 6  BEYOND 

Winton  patted  her  hand.  "We  must  stand  up 
to  'em,  you  know,  Gyp.  You  mustn't  get  your  tail 
down." 

Gyp  laughed. 

"No,  Dad;  never!" 

That  same  night,  across  the  strip  of  blackness  be- 
tween their  beds,  she  said: 

"Bryan,  promise  me  something!" 

"It  depends.     I  know  you  too  well." 

"No;  it's  quite  reasonable,  and  possible. 
Promise!" 

"All  right;  if  it  is." 

"I  want  you  to  let  me  take  the  lease  of  the  Red 
House — let  it  be  mine,  the  whole  thing — let  me  pay 
for  everything  there." 

"Reasonable!    What's  the  point?" 

"Only  that  I  shall  have  a  proper  home  of  my  own. 
I  can't  explain,  but  your  mother's  coming  to-day 
made  me  feel  I  must." 

"My  child,  how  could  I  possibly  live  on  you 
there?    It's  absurd!" 

"You  can  pay  for  everything  else;  London — 
travelling — clothes,  if  you  like.  We  can  make  it 
square  up.  It's  not  a  question  of  money,  of  course. 
I  only  want  to  feel  that  if,  at  any  moment,  you  don't 
need  me  any  more,  you  can  simply  stop  coming." 

"I  think  that's  brutal,  Gyp." 

"No,  no;  so  many  women  lose  men's  love  be- 
cause they  seem  to  claim  things  of  them.  I  don't 
want  to  lose  yours  that  way — that's  all." 

"That's  silly,  darling!"  * 


BEYOND  417 

"It's  not.  Men — and  women,  too — always  tug 
at  chains.     And  when  there  is  no  chain " 

"Well  then;  let  me  take  the  house,  and  you  can 
go  away  when  you're  tired  of  me."  His  voice 
sounded  smothered,  resentful;  she  could  hear  him 
turning  and  turning,  as  if  angry  with  his  pillows. 
And  she  murmured: 

"No;  I  can't  explain.    But  I  really  mean  it." 

"We're  just  beginning  life  together,  and  you  talk 
as  if  you  want  to  split  it  up.  It  hurts,  Gyp,  and 
that's  all  about  it." 

She  said  gently: 

"Don't  be  angry,  dear." 

"Well !    Why  don't  you  trust  me  more?" 

"I  do.     Only  I  must  make  as  sure  as  I  can." 

The  sound  came  again  of  his  turning  and  turning. 

"I  can't!" 

Gyp  said  slowly: 

"Oh!    Very  well!" 

A  dead  silence  followed,  both  lying  quiet  in  the 
darkness,  trying  to  get  the  better  of  each  other  by 
sheer  listening.  An  hour  perhaps  passed  before  he 
sighed,  and,  feeling  his  lips  on  hers,  she  knew  that 
she  had  won. 


Ill 

There,  in  the  study,  the  moonlight  had  reached 
her  face;  an  owl  was  hooting  not  far  away,  and  still 
more  memories  came — the  happiest  of  all,  perhaps 
— of  first  days  in  this  old  house  together. 

Summerhay  damaged  himself  out  hunting  that 
first  winter.  The  memory  of  nursing  him  was 
strangely  pleasant,  now  that  it  was  two  years  old. 
For  convalescence  they  had  gone  to  the  Pyrenees — 
Argeles  in  March,  all  almond-blossom  and  snows 
against  the  blue — a  wonderful  fortnight.  In  Lon- 
don on  the  way  back  they  had  their  first  awkward 
encounter.  Coming  out  of  a  theatre  one  evening, 
Gyp  heard  a  woman's  voice,  close  behind,  say: 
"Why,  it's  Bryan!  What  ages!"  And  his  answer 
defensively  drawled  out: 

"Hallo!    How  are  you,  Diana?" 

"Oh,  awfully  fit.  Where  are  you,  nowadays? 
Why  don't  you  come  and  see  us?" 

Again  the  drawl: 

"Down  in  the  country.  I  will,  some  time. 
Good-bye." 

A  tall  woman  or  girl — red-haired,  with  one  of 
those  wonderful  white  skins  that  go  therewith;  and 
brown — yes,  brown  eyes;  Gyp  could  see  those  eyes 
sweeping  her  up  and  down  with  a  sort  of  burning- 

418 


BEYOND  419 

live  curiosity.  Bryan's  hand  was  thrust  under  her 
arm  at  once. 

"Come  on,  let's  walk  and  get  a  cab." 

As  soon  as  they  were  clear  of  the  crowd,  she 
pressed  his  hand  to  her  breast,  and  said: 

"Did  you  mind?" 

"Mind?    Of  course  not.    It's  for  you  to  mind." 

"Who  was  it?" 

"A  second  cousin.    Diana  Ley  ton." 

"Do  you  know  her  very  well?" 

"Oh  yes— used  to." 

"And  do  you  like  her  very  much?" 

"Rather!" 

He  looked  round  into  her  face,  with  laughter  bub- 
bling up  behind  his  gravity.  Ah,  but  could  one 
tease  on  such  a  subject  as  their  love?  And  to  this 
day  the  figure  of  that  tall  girl  with  the  burning-white 
skin,  the  burning-brown  eyes,  the  burning-red  hair 
was  not  quite  a  pleasant  memory  to  Gyp.  After 
that  night,  they  gave  up  all  attempt  to  hide  their 
union,  going  to  whatever  they  wished,  whether  they 
were  likely  to  meet  people  or  not.  Gyp  found  that 
nothing  was  so  easily  ignored  as  Society  when  the 
heart  was  set  on  other  things.  Besides,  they  were 
seldom  in  London,  and  in  the  country  did  not  wish 
to  know  anyone,  in  any  case.  But  she  never  lost 
the  feeling  that  what  was  ideal  for  her  might  not  be 
ideal  for  him.  He  ought  to  go  into  the  world,  ought 
to  meet  people.  It  would  not  do  for  him  to  be 
cut  off  from  social  pleasures  and  duties,  and  then 
some  day  feel  that  he  owed  his  starvation  to  her. 


420  BEYOND 

To  go  up  to  London,  too,  every  day  was  tiring,  and 
she  persuaded  him  to  take  a  set  of  residential  cham- 
bers in  the  Temple,  and  sleep  there  three  nights  a 
week.  In  spite  of  all  his  entreaties,  she  herself 
never  went  to  those  chambers,  staying  always  at 
Bury  Street  when  she  came  up.  A  kind  of  super- 
stition prevented  her;  she  would  not  risk  making 
him  feel  that  she  was  hanging  round  his  neck. 
Besides,  she  wanted  to  keep  herself  desirable — so 
little  a  matter  of  course  that  he  would  hanker  after 
her  when  he  was  away.  And  she  never  asked  him 
where  he  went  or  whom  he  saw.  But,  sometimes, 
she  wondered  whether  he  could  still  be  quite  faith- 
ful to  her  in  thought,  love  her  as  he  used  to;  and 
joy  would  go  down  behind  a  heavy  bank  of  clouds, 
till,  at  his  return,  the  sun  came  out  again.  Love 
such  as  hers — passionate,  adoring,  protective,  long- 
ing to  sacrifice  itself,  to  give  all  that  it  had  to  him, 
yet  secretly  demanding  all  his  love  in  return — for 
how  could  a  proud  woman  love  one  who  did  not 
love  her? — such  love  as  this  is  always  longing  for 
a  union  more  complete  than  it  is  likely  to  get  in  a 
world  where  all  things  move  and  change.  But 
against  the  grip  of  this  love  she  never  dreamed  of 
fighting  now.  From  the  moment  when  she  knew 
she  must  cling  to  him  rather  than  to  her  baby,  she 
had  made  no  reservations;  all  her  eggs  were  in  one 
basket,  as  her  father's  had  been  before  her — all ! 

The  moonlight  was  shining  full  on  the  old  bureau 
and  a  vase  of  tulips  standing  there,  giving  those 
flowers  colour  that  was  not  colour,  and  an  unnamed 


BEYOND  421 

look,  as  if  they  came  from  a  world  which  no  human 
enters.  It  glinted  on  a  bronze  bust  of  old  Voltaire, 
which  she  had  bought  him  for  a  Christmas  present, 
so  that  the  great  writer  seemed  to  be  smiling  from 
the  hollows  of  his  eyes.  Gyp  turned  the  bust  a 
little,  :o  catch  the  light  on  its  far  cheek;  a  letter  was 
disclosed  between  it  and  the  oak.  She  drew  it  out 
thinking:  ' Bless  him!  He  uses  everything  for 
paper-weights';  and,  in  the  strange  light,  its  first 
words  caught  her  eyes: 

"Dear  Bryan, 

"But  I  say — you  are  wasting  yourself " 

She  laid  it  down,  methodically  pushing  it  back 
under  the  bust.  Perhaps  he  had  put  it  there  on 
purpose !  She  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  to 
check  the  temptation  to  read  the  rest  of  that  let- 
ter and  see  from  whom  it  was.  No !  She  did  not 
admit  that  she  was  tempted.  One  did  not  read 
letters.  Then  the  full  import  of  those  few  words 
struck  into  her:  "Dear  Bryan.  But  /  say — you  are 
wasting  yourself."  A  letter  in  a  chain  of  corre- 
spondence, then!  A  woman's  hand;  but  not  his 
mother's,  nor  his  sisters' — she  knew  their  writings. 
Who  had  dared  to  say  he  was  wasting  himself?  A 
letter  in  a  chain  of  letters !  An  intimate  correspon- 
dent, whose  name  she  did  not  know,  because — he  had 
not  told  her!  Wasting  himself — on  what? — on  his 
life  with  her  down  here?  And  was  he?  Had  she 
herself  not  said  that  very  night  that  he  had  lost  his 
laugh?    She  began  searching  her  memory.    Yes, 


422  BEYOND 

last  Christmas  vacation — that  clear,  cold,  wonder- 
ful fortnight  in  Florence,  he  had  been  full  of  fun.  It 
was  May  now.  Was  there  no  memory  since — of  his 
old  infectious  gaiety?  She  could  not  think  of  any. 
"But  /  say — you  are  wasting  yourself."  A  sudden 
hatred  flared  up  in  her  against  the  unknown  woman 
who  had  said  that  thing — and  fever,  running  through 
her  veins,  made  her  ears  burn.  She  longed  to 
snatch  forth  and  tear  to  pieces  the  letter,  with  its 
guardianship  of  which  that  bust  seemed  mocking 
her;  and  she  turned  away  with  the  thought:  'I'll 
go  and  met  him;  I  can't  wait  here.' 

Throwing  on  a  cloak  she  walked  out  into  the 
moonlit  garden,  and  went  slowly  down  the  whitened 
road  toward  the  station.  A  magical,  dewless  night ! 
The  moonbeams  had  stolen  in  to  the  beech  clump, 
frosting  the  boles  and  boughs,  casting  a  fine  ghostly 
grey  over  the  shadow-patterned  beech-mast.  Gyp 
took  the  short  cut  through  it.  Not  a  leaf  moved  in 
there,  no  living  thing  stirred;  so  might  an  earth  be 
where  only  trees  inhabited!  She  thought:  Til 
bring  him  back  through  here.'  And  she  waited  at 
the  far  corner  of  the  clump,  where  he  must  pass, 
some  little  distance  from  the  station.  She  never 
gave  people  unnecessary  food  for  gossip — any  slight- 
ing of  her  irritated  him,  she  was  careful  to  spare  him 
that.  The  train  came  in;  a  car  went  whizzing  by, 
a  cyclist,  then  the  first  foot-passenger,  at  a  great 
pace,  breaking  into  a  run.  She  saw  that  it  was  he, 
and,  calling  out  his  name,  ran  back  into  the  shadow 
of  the  trees.     He  stopped  dead  in  his  tracks,  then 


BEYOND  423 

came  rushing  after  her.  That  pursuit  did  not  last 
long,  and,  in  his  arms,  Gyp  said: 

"If  you  aren't  too  hungry,  darling,  let's  stay  here 
a  little — it's  so  wonderful ! " 

They  sat  down  on  a  great  root,  and  leaning  against 
him,  looking  up  at  the  dark  branches,  she  said: 

"Have  you  had  a  hard  day?" 

"Yes;  got  hung  up  by  a  late  consultation;  and 
old  Ley  ton  asked  me  to  come  and  dine." 

Gyp  felt  a  sensation  as  when  feet  happen  on 
ground  that  gives  a  little. 

"The  Leytons — that's  Eaton  Square,  isn't  it?  A 
big  dinner?" 

"No.  Only  the  old  people,  and  Bertie  and  Di- 
ana." 

"Diana?  That's  the  girl  we  met  coming  out  of 
the  theatre,  isn't  it?" 

"When?    Oh — ah — what  a  memory,  Gyp !" 

"Yes;  it's  good  for  things  that  interest  me." 

"Why?    Did  she  interest  you?" 

Gyp  turned  and  looked  into  his  face. 

"Yes.    Is  she  clever?" 

"H'm !    I  suppose  you  might  call  her  so." 

"And  in  love  with  you?" 

"Great  Scott!    Why?" 

"Is  it  very  unlikely?    I  am." 

He  began  kissing  her  lips  and  hair.  And,  closing 
her  eyes,  Gyp  thought:  'If  only  that's  not  because 
he  doesn't  want  to  answer!'  Then,  for  some 
minutes,  they  were  silent  as  the  moonlit  beech 
clump. 


424  BEYOND 

"Answer  me  truly,  Bryan.  Do  you  never — never 
— feel  as  if  you  were  wasting  yourself  on  me?" 

She  was  certain  of  a  quiver  in  his  grasp;  but  his 
face  was  open  and  serene,  his  voice  as  usual  when  he 
was  teasing. 

"Well,  hardly  ever!    Aren't  you  funny,  dear?" 

"Promise  me  faithfully  to  let  me  know  when 
you've  had  enough  of  me.    Promise!" 

"All  right!  But  don't  look  for  fulfilment  in  this 
life." 

"I'm  not  so  sure." 

"I  am." 

Gyp  put  up  her  lips,  and  tried  to  drown  for  ever 
in  a  kiss  the  memory  of  those  words:  "But  /  say — 
you  are  wasting  yourself." 


IV 

Stjmmerhay,  coming  down  next  morning,  went 
straight  to  his  bureau;  his  mind  was  not  at  ease. 
"Wasting  yourself!"  What  had  he  done  with  that 
letter  of  Diana's?  He  remembered  Gyp's  coming 
in  just  as  he  finished  reading  it.  Searching  the 
pigeonholes  and  drawers,  moving  everything  that 
lay  about,  he  twitched  the  bust — and  the  letter  lay 
disclosed.    He' took  it  up  with  a  sigh  of  relief: 

"Dear  Bryan, 

"  But  /  say — you  are  wasting  yourself.  Why,  my  dear,  of 
course!  '/£  faut  se  faire  valoirl'  You  have  only  one  foot 
to  put  forward;  the  other  is  planted  in  I  don't  know  what 
mysterious  hole.  One  foot  in  the  grave — at  thirty !  Really, 
Bryan!  Pull  it  out.  There's  such  a  lot  waiting  for  you. 
It's  no  good  your  being  hoity-toity,  and  telling  me  to  mind 
my  business.  I'm  speaking  for  everyone  who  knows  you. 
We  all  feel  the  blight  on  the  rose.  Besides,  you  always 
were  my  favourite  cousin,  ever  since  I  was  five  and  you  a 
horrid  little  bully  of  ten;  and  I  simply  hate  to  think  of  you 
going  slowly  down  instead  of  quickly  up.  Oh !  I  know 
'D — n  the  world !'  But — are  you?  I  should  have  thought 
it  was  '  d — ning '  you  !  Enough !  When  are  you  coming 
to  see  us?  I've  read  that  book.  The  man  seems  to  think 
love  is  nothing  but  passion,  and  passion  always  fatal.  I 
wonder !    Perhaps  you  know. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me  for  being  such  a  grandmother. 

"  Au  revoir. 

"  Your  very  good  cousin, 

"  Diana  Leyton." 
42s 


426  BEYOND 

He  crammed  the  letter  into  his  pocket,  and  sat 
there,  appalled.  It  must  have  lain  two  days  under 
that  bust!  Had  Gyp  seen  it?  He  looked  at  the 
bronze  face;  and  the  philosopher  looked  back  from 
the  hollows  of  his  eyes,  as  if  to  say:  "What  do  you 
know  of  the  human  heart,  my  boy — your  own,  your 
mistress's,  that  girl's,  or  anyone's?  A  pretty  dance 
the  heart  will  lead  you  yet !  Put  it  in  a  packet,  tie 
it  round  with  string,  seal  it  up,  drop  it  in  a  drawer, 
lock  the  drawer !  And  to-morrow  it  will  be  out  and 
skipping  on  its  wrappings.  Ho !  Ho ! "  And  Sum- 
merhay  thought:  'You  old  goat.  You  never  had 
one ! '  In  the  room  above,  Gyp  would  still  be  stand- 
ing as  he  had  left  her,  putting  the  last  touch  to  her 
hair — a  man  would  be  a  scoundrel  who,  even  in 
thought,  could —  "Hallo!"  the  eyes  of  the  bust 
seemed  to  say.  "Pity!  That's  queer,  isn't  it? 
Why  not  pity  that  red-haired  girl,  with  the  skin  so 
white  that  it  burns  you,  and  the  eyes  so  brown  that 
they  burn  you — don't  they?"  Old  Satan!  Gyp 
had  his  heart;  no  one  in  the  world  would  ever  take 
it  from  her ! 

And  in  the  chair  where  she  had  sat  last  night 
conjuring  up  memories,  he  too  now  conjured.  How 
he  had  loved  her,  did  love  her !  She  would  always 
be  what  she  was  and  had  been  to  him.  And  the 
sage's  mouth  seemed  to  twist  before  him  with  the 
words:  "Quite  so,  my  dear!  But  the  heart's  very 
funny — very — capacious ! "  A  tiny  sound  made  him 
turn. 

Little  Gyp  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 


BEYOND  427 

"Hallo!"  he  said. 

"Hallo,  Baryn!"  She  came  flying  to  him,  and 
he  caught  her  up  so  that  she  stood  on  his  knees 
with  the  sunlight  shining  on  her  fluffed  out  hair. 

"Well,  Gipsy !    Who's  getting  a  tall  girl?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  ride." 

"Ho,  ho!" 

"Baryn,  let's  do  Humpty-Dumpty!" 

"All  right;  come  on!"  He  rose  and  carried  her 
upstairs. 

Gyp  was  still  doing  one  of  those  hundred  things 
which  occupy  women  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after 
they  are  "quite  ready,"  and  at  little  Gyp's  shout  of, 
"Humpty !"  she  suspended  her  needle  to  watch  the 
sacred  rite. 

Summerhay  had  seated  himself  on  the  foot-rail  of 
the  bed,  rounding  his  arms,  sinking  his  neck,  blow- 
ing out  his  cheeks  to  simulate  an  egg;  then,  with  an 
unexpectedness  that  even  little  Gyp  could  always 
see  through,  he  rolled  backward  on  to  the  bed. 

And  she,  simulating  "all  the  king's  horses,"  tried 
in  vain  to  put  him  up  again.  This  immemorial 
game,  watched  by  Gyp  a  hundred  times,  had  to-day 
a  special  preciousness.  If  he  could  be  so  ridiculously 
young,  what  became  of  her  doubts  ?  Looking  at  his 
face  pulled  this  way  and  that,  lazily  imperturbable 
under  the  pommelings  of  those  small  fingers,  she 
thought:  'And  that  girl  dared  to  say  he  was  wasting 
himself!'  For  in  the  night  conviction  had  come  to 
her  that  those  words  were  written  by  the  tall  girl 
with  the  white  skin,  the  girl  of  the  theatre — the 


428  BEYOND 

Diana  of  his  last  night's  dinner.  Humpty-Dumpty 
was  up  on  the  bed-rail  again  for  the  finale;  all  the 
king's  horses  were  clasped  to  him,  making  the  egg 
more  round,  and  over  they  both  went  with  shrieks 
and  gurgles.  What  a  boy  he  was !  She  would  not — 
no,  she  would  not  brood  and  spoil  her  day  with  him. 

But  that  afternoon,  at  the  end  of  a  long  gallop 
on  the  downs,  she  turned  her  head  away  and  said 
suddenly : 

"Is  she  a  huntress?" 

"Who?" 

"Your  cousin — Diana." 

In  his  laziest  voice,  he  answered: 

"I  suppose  you  mean — does  she  hunt  me?" 

She  knew  that  tone,  that  expression  on  his  face, 
knew  he  was  angry;  but  could  not  stop  herself. 

"I  did." 

"So  you're  going  to  become  jealous,  Gyp?" 

It  was  one  of  those  cold,  naked  sayings  that 
should  never  be  spoken  between  lovers — one  of 
those  sayings  at  which  the  heart  of  the  one  who 
speaks  sinks  with  a  kind  of  dismay,  and  the  heart 
of  the  one  who  hears  quivers.  She  cantered  on. 
And  he,  perforce,  after  her.  When  she  reined  in 
again,  he  glanced  into  her  face  and  was  afraid.  It 
was  all  closed  up  against  him.    And  he  said  softly: 

"I  didn't  mean  that,  Gyp." 

But  she  only  shook  her  head.  He  had  meant  it 
— had  wanted  to  hurt  her!  It  didn't  matter — she 
wouldn't  give  him  the  chance  again.     And  she  said: 

"Look  at  that  long  white  cloud,  and  the  apple- 


BEYOND  429 

green  in  the  sky — rain  to-morrow.  One  ought  to 
enjoy  any  fine  day  as  if  it  were  the  last." 

Uneasy,  ashamed,  yet  still  a  little  angry,  Summer- 
hay  rode  on  beside  her. 

That  night,  she  cried  in  her  sleep;  and,  when  he 
awakened  her,  clung  to  him  and  sobbed  out: 

"Oh!  such  a  dreadful  dream!  I  thought  you'd 
left  off  loving  me ! " 

For  a  long  time  he  held  and  soothed  her.  Never, 
never !    He  would  never  leave  off  loving  her ! 

But  a  cloud  no  broader  than  your  hand  can  spread 
and  cover  the  whole  day. 


V 

The  summer  passed,  and  always  there  was  that 
little  patch  of  silence  in  her  heart,  and  in  his.  The 
tall,  bright  days  grew  taller,  slowly  passed  their 
zenith,  slowly  shortened.  On  Saturdays  and  Sun- 
days, sometimes  with  Winton  and  little  Gyp,  but 
more  often  alone,  they  went  on  the  river.  For 
Gyp,  it  had  never  lost  the  magic  of  their  first  after- 
noon upon  it — never  lost  its  glamour  as  of  an  en- 
chanted world.  All  the  week  she  looked  forward 
to  these  hours  of  isolation  with  him,  as  if  the  sur- 
rounding water  secured  her  not  only  against  a 
world  that  would  take  him  from  her,  if  it  could, 
but  against  that  side  of  his  nature,  which,  so  long 
ago  she  had  named  "old  Georgian."  She  had  once 
adventured  to  the  law  courts  by  herself,  to  see  him 
in  his  wig  and  gown.  Under  that  stiff  grey  crescent 
on  his  broad  forehead,  he  seemed  so  hard  and  clever 
— so  of  a  world  to  which  she  never  could  belong, 
so  of  a  piece  with  the  brilliant  bullying  of  the  whole 
proceeding.  She  had  come  away  feeling  that  she 
only  possessed  and  knew  one  side  of  him.  On  the 
river,  she  had  that  side  utterly — her  lovable,  lazy, 
impudently  loving  boy,  lying  with  his  head  in  her* 
lap,  plunging  in  for  a  swim,  splashing  round  her; 
or  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  his  neck  bare,  and  a 
smile  on  his  face,  plying  his  slow  sculls  down-stream, 

43° 


BEYOND  431 

singing,  "Away,  my  rolling  river,"  or  pulling  home 
like  a  demon  in  want  of  his  dinner.  It  was  such  a 
blessing  to  lose  for  a  few  hours  each  week  this  grow- 
ing consciousness  that  she  could  never  have  the 
whole  of  him.  But  all  the  time  the  patch  of  silence 
grew,  for  doubt  in  the  heart  of  one  lover  reacts  on 
the  heart  of  the  other. 

When  the  long  vacation  came,  she  made  an 
heroic  resolve.  He  must  go  to  Scotland,  must  have 
a  month  away  from  her,  a  good  long  rest.  And 
while  Betty  was  at  the  sea  with  little  Gyp,  she 
would  take  her  father  to  his  cure.  She  held  so  in- 
flexibly to  this  resolve,  that,  after  many  protests, 
he  said  with  a  shrug : 

"Very  well,  I  will  then — if  you're  so  keen  to  get 
rid  of  me." 

"Keen  to  get  rid!"  When  she  could  not  bear 
to  be  away  from  him !  But  she  forced  her  feeling 
back,  and  said,  smiling: 

"At  last!  There's  a  good  boy!"  Anything! 
If  only  it  would  bring  him  back  to  her  exactly  as 
he  had  been.  She  asked  no  questions  as  to  where, 
or  to  whom,  he  would  go. 

Tunbridge  Wells,  that  charming  purgatory  where 
the  retired  prepare  their  souls  for  a  more  permanent 
retirement,  was  dreaming  on  its  hills  in  long  rows 
of  adequate  villas.  Its  commons  and  woods  had 
remained  unscorched,  so  that  the  retired  had  not 
to  any  extent  deserted  it,  that  August,  for  the  sea. 
They  still  shopped  in  the  Pantiles,  strolled  the  up- 


432  BEYOND 

lands,  or  nourished  their  golf-clubs  in  the  grassy 
parks;  they  still  drank  tea  in  each  other's  houses 
and  frequented  the  many  churches.  One  could 
see  their  faces,  as  it  were,  goldened  by  their  com- 
ing glory,  like  the  chins  of  children  by  reflection 
from  buttercups.  From  every  kind  of  life  they  had 
retired,  and,  waiting  now  for  a  more  perfect  day, 
were  doing  their  utmost  to  postpone  it.  They  lived 
very  long. 

Gyp  and  her  father  had  rooms  in  a  hotel  where 
he  could  bathe  and  drink  the  waters  without  having 
to  climb  three  hills.  This  was  the  first  cure  she 
had  attended  since  the  long-past  time  at  Wies- 
baden. Was  it  possible  that  was  only  six  years 
ago?  She  felt  so  utterly,  so  strangely  different! 
Then  life  had  been  sparkling  sips  of  every  drink, 
and  of  none  too  much;  now  it  was  one  long  still 
draft,  to  quench  a  thirst  that  would  not  be 
quenched. 

During  these  weeks  she  held  herself  absolutely 
at  her  father's  disposal,  but  she  lived  for  the  post, 
and  if,  by  any  chance,  she  did  not  get  her  daily 
letter,  her  heart  sank  to  the  depths.  She  wrote 
every  day,  sometimes  twice,  then  tore  up  that 
second  letter,  remembering  for  what  reason  she 
had  set  herself  to  undergo  this  separation.  During 
the  first  week,  his  letters  had  a  certain  equanimity; 
in  the  second  week  they  became  ardent;  in  the 
third,  they  were  fitful — now  beginning  to  look 
forward,  now  moody  and  dejected;  and  they  were 
shorter.     During  this  third  week  Aunt  Rosamund 


BEYOND  433 

joined  them.  The  good  lady  had  become  a  staunch 
supporter  of  Gyp's  new  existence,  which,  in  her 
view,  served  Fiorsen  right.  Why  should  the  poor 
child's  life  be  loveless?  She  had  a  definitely  low 
opinion  of  men,  and  a  lower  of  the  state  of  the  mar- 
riage-laws; in  her  view,  any  woman  who  struck  a 
blow  in  that  direction  was  something  of  a  heroine. 
And  she  was  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  Gyp  was 
quite  guiltless  of  the  desire  to  strike  a  blow  against 
the  marriage-laws,  or  anything  else.  Aunt  Rosa- 
mund's aristocratic  and  rebellious  blood  boiled  with 
hatred  of  what  she  called  the  "stuffy  people"  who 
still  held  that  women  were  men's  property.  It 
had  made  her  specially  careful  never  to  put  herself 
in  that  position. 

She  had  brought  Gyp  a  piece  of  news. 

"I  was  walking  down  Bond  Street  past  that  tea- 
and-tart  shop,  my  dear — you  know,  where  they 
have  those  special  coffee-creams,  and  who  should 
come  out  of  it  but  Miss  Daphne  Wing  and  our  friend 
Fiorsen;  and  pretty  hangdog  he  looked.  He  came 
up  to  me,  with  his  little  lady  watching  him  like  a 
lynx.  Really,  my  dear,  I  was  rather  sorry  for  him; 
he'd  got  that  hungry  look  of  his;  she'd  been  do- 
ing all  the  eating,  I'm  sure.  He  asked  me  how  you 
were.    I  told  him,  'Very  well.' 

"  'When  you  see  her/  he  said,  'tell  her  I  haven't 
forgotten  her,  and  never  shall.  But  she  was  quite 
right;  this  is  the  sort  of  lady  that  I'm  fit  for.'  And 
the  way  he  looked  at  that  girl  made  me  feel  quite 
uncomfortable.    Then  he  gave  me  one  of  his  little 


434  BEYOND 

bows;  and  off  they  went,  she  as  pleased  as  Punch. 
I  really  was  sorry  for  him." 

Gyp  said  quietly: 

"Ah!  you  needn't  have  been,  Auntie;  he'll  al- 
ways be  able  to  be  sorry  for  himself." 

A  little  shocked  at  her  niece's  cynicism,  Aunt 
Rosamund  was  silent.  The  poor  lady  had  not 
lived  with  Fiorsen ! 

That  same  afternoon,  Gyp  was  sitting  in  a  shelter 
on  the  common,  a  book  on  her  knee — thinking  her 
one  long  thought:  ' To-day  is  Thursday — Monday 
week  !  Eleven  days — still ! ' — when  three  figures 
came  slowly  toward  her,  a  man,  a  woman,  and 
what  should  have  been  a  dog.  English  love  of 
beauty  and  the  rights  of  man  had  forced  its  nose 
back,  deprived  it  of  half  its  ears,  and  all  but  three 
inches  or  so  of  tail.  It  had  asthma — and  waddled 
in  disillusionment.    A  voice  said: 

"This'll  do,  Maria.    We  can  take  the  sun  'ere." 

But  for  that  voice,  with  the  permanent  cold 
hoarseness  caught  beside  innumerable  graves,  Gyp 
might  not  have  recognized  Mr.  Wagge,  for  he  had 
taken  off  his  beard,  leaving  nothing  but  side-whiskers, 
and  Mrs.  Wagge  had  filled  out  wonderfully.  They 
were  some  time  settling  down  beside  her. 

"You  sit  here,  Maria;  you  won't  get  the  sun  in 
your  eyes." 

"No,  Robert;   I'll  sit  here.    You  sit  there." 

"No,  you  sit  there." 

"No,  /  will.    Come,  Duckie!" 

But  the  dog,  standing  stockily  on  the  pathway 


BEYOND  435 

was  gazing  at  Gyp,  while  what  was  left  of  its  broad 
nose  moved  from  side  to  side.  Mr.  Wagge  fol- 
lowed the  direction  of  its  glance. 

"Oh!"  he  said,  "oh,  this  is  a  surprise!"  And 
fumbling  at  Ins  straw  hat,  he  passed  his  other  hand 
over  his  sleeve  and  held  it  out  to  Gyp.  It  felt  al- 
most dry,  and  fatter  than  it  had  been.  While  she 
was  shaking  it,  the  dog  moved  forward  and  sat 
down  on  her  feet.  Mrs.  Wagge  also  extended  her 
hand,  clad  in  a  shiny  glove. 

"This  is  a — a — pleasure,"  she  murmured.  "Who 
would  have  thought  of  meeting  you!  Oh,  don't 
let  Duckie  sit  against  your  pretty  frock!  Come, 
Duckie ! " 

But  Duckie  did  not  move,  resting  his  back  against 
Gyp's  shin-bones.  Mr.  Wagge,  whose  tongue  had 
been  passing  over  a  mouth  which  she  saw  to  its 
full  advantage  for  the  first  time,  said  abruptly: 

"You  'aven't  come  to  live  here,  'ave  you?" 

"Oh  no!  I'm  only  with  my  father  for  the 
baths." 

"Ah,  I  thought  not,  never  havm'  seen  you. 
We've  been  retired  here  ourselves  a  matter  of  twelve 
months.    A  pretty  spot." 

"Yes;  lovely,  isn't  it?" 

"We  wanted  nature.  The  air  suits  us,  though  a 
bit — er — too  irony,  as  you  might  say.  But  it's  a 
long-lived  place.  We  were  quite  a  time  lookin' 
round." 

Mrs.  Wagge  added  in  her  thin  voice: 

"Yes — we'd    thought    of    Wimbledon,    you    see, 


436  BEYOND 

but  Mr.  Wagge  liked  this  better;  he  can  get  his 
walk,  here;  and  it's  more — select,  perhaps.  We 
have  several  friends.    The  church  is  very  nice." 

Mr.  Wagge's  face  assumed  an  uncertain  expres- 
sion.   He  said  bluffly: 

"I  was  always  a  chapel  man;  but — I  don't  know 
how  it  is — there's  something  in  a  place  like  this 
that  makes  church  seem  more — more  suitable;  my 
wife  always  had  a  leaning  that  way.  I  never  con- 
ceal my  actions." 

Gyp  murmured : 

"It's  a  question  of  atmosphere,  isn't  it?" 

Mr.  Wagge  shook  his  head. 

"No;  I  don't  hold  with  incense — we're  not  'Igh 
Church.  But  how  are  you,  ma'am  ?  We  often  speak 
of  you.    You're  looking  well." 

His  face  had  become  a  dusky  orange,  and  Mrs. 
Wagge's  the  colour  of  a  doubtful  beetroot.  The  dog 
on  Gyp's  feet  stirred,  snuffled,  turned  round,  and 
fell  heavily  against  her  legs  again.     She  said  quietly : 

"I  was  hearing  of  Daisy  only  to-day.  She's 
quite  a  star  now,  isn't  she?" 

Mrs.  Wagge  sighed.  Mr.  Wagge  looked  away 
and  answered: 

"It's  a  sore  subject.  There  she  is,  making  her 
forty  and  fifty  pound  a  week,  and  run  after  in  all 
the  papers.  She's  a  success — no  doubt  about  it. 
And  she  works.  Saving  a  matter  of  fifteen  'undred 
a  year,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised.  Why,  at  my  best, 
the  years  the  influenza  was  so  bad,  I  never  cleared 
a  thousand  nett.    No,  she's  a  success." 


BEYOND  437 

Mrs.  Wagge  added: 

"Have  you  seen  her  last  photograph — the  one 
where  she's  standing  between  two  hydrangea-tubs  ? 
It  was  her  own  idea." 

Mr.  Wagge  mumbled  suddenly: 

"I'm  always  glad  to  see  her  when  she  takes  a 
run  down  in  a  car.  But  I've  come  here  for  quiet 
after  the  life  I've  led,  and  I  don't  want  to  think 
about  it,  especially  before  you,  ma'am.  I  don't — 
that's  a  fact." 

A  silence  followed,  during  which  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wagge  looked  at  their  feet,  and  Gyp  looked  at  the 
dog. 

"Ah! — here  you  are!"  It  was  Win  ton,  who  had 
come  up  from  behind  the  shelter,  and  stood,  with 
eyebrows  slightly  raised.  Gyp  could  not  help  a 
smile.  Her  father's  weathered,  narrow  face,  half- 
veiled  eyes,  thin  nose,  little  crisp,  grey  moustache 
that  did  not  hide  his  firm  lips,  his  lean,  erect  figure, 
the  very  way  he  stood,  his  thin,  dry,  clipped  voice 
were  the  absolute  antithesis  of  Mr.  Wagge's  thick- 
set, stoutly  planted  form,  thick-skinned,  thick- 
featured  face,  thick,  rather  hoarse  yet  oily  voice. 
It  was  as  if  Providence  had  arranged  a  demonstra- 
tion of  the  extremes  of  social  type.    And  she  said: 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wagge— my  father." 

Winton  raised  his  hat.  Gyp  remained  seated, 
the  dog  Duckie  being  still  on  her  feet. 

"  'Appy  to  meet  you,  sir.  I  hope  you  have  bene- 
fit from  the  waters.  They're  supposed  to  be  most 
powerful,  I  believe." 


438  BEYOND 

"Thank  you — not  more  deadly  than  most.  Are 
you  drinking  them?" 

Mr.  Wagge  smiled. 

"Nao!"  he  said,  "we  live  here." 

"Indeed!    Do  you  find  anything  to  do?" 

"Well,  as  a  fact,  I've  come  here  for  rest.  But 
I  take  a  Turkish  bath  once  a  fortnight — find  it 
refreshing;   keeps  the  pores  of  the  skin  acting." 

Mrs.  Wagge  added  gently : 

"It  seems  to  suit  my  husband  wonderfully." 

Winton  murmured : 

"Yes.  Is  this  your  dog?  Bit  of  a  philosopher, 
isn't  he?" 

Mrs.  Wagge  answered: 

"Oh,  he's  a  naughty  dog,  aren't  you,  Duckie?" 

The  dog  Duckie,  feeling  himself  the  cynosure  of 
every  eye,  rose  and  stood  panting  into  Gyp's  face. 
She  took  the  occasion  to  get  up. 

"We  must  go,  I'm  afraid.  Good-bye.  It's  been 
very  nice  to  meet  you  again.  When  you  see  Daisy, 
will  you  please  give  her  my  love?" 

Mrs.  Wagge  unexpectedly  took  a  handkerchief 
from  her  reticule.  Mr.  Wagge  cleared  his  throat 
heavily.  Gyp  was  conscious  of  the  dog  Duckie 
waddling  after  them,  and  of  Mrs.  Wagge  calling, 
"Duckie,  Duckie!"  from  behind  her  handkerchief. 

Winton  said  softly: 

"So  those  two  got  that  pretty  filly!  Well,  she 
didn't  show  much  quality,  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it.  She's  still  with  our  friend,  according  to  your 
aunt." 


BEYOND  439 

Gyp  nodded. 

"Yes;   and  I  do  hope  she's  happy." 

"He  isn't,  apparently.    Serves  him  right." 

Gyp  shook  her  head. 

" Oh  no,  Dad!" 

"Well,  one  oughtn't  to  wish  any  man  worse  than 
he's  likely  to  get.  But  when  I  see  people  daring 
to  look  down  their  noses  at  you — by  Jove !  I 
get " 

"Darling,  what  does  that  matter?" 

Winton  answered  testily: 

"It  matters  very  much  to  me — the  impudence 
of  it!"  His  mouth  relaxed  in  a  grim  little  smile: 
"Ah,  well — there's  not  much  to  choose  between  us  so 
far  as  condemning  our  neighbours  goes.  '  Charity 
Stakes — also  ran,  Charles  Clare  Winton,  the  Church, 
and  Mrs.  Grundy.'  " 

They  opened  out  to  each  other  more  in  those 
few  days  at  Tunbridge  Wells  than  they  had  for 
years.  Whether  the  process  of  bathing  softened  his 
crust,  or  the  air  that  Mr.  Wagge  found  "a  bit — er — 
too  irony,  as  you  might  say,"  had  upon  Winton 
the  opposite  effect,  he  certainly  relaxed  that  first 
duty  of  man,  the  concealment  of  his  spirit,  and  dis- 
closed his  activities  as  he  never  had  before — how 
such  and  such  a  person  had  been  set  on  his  feet, 
so  and  so  sent  out  to  Canada,  this  man's  wife  helped 
over  her  confinement,  that  man's  daughter  started 
again  after  a  slip.  And  Gyp's  child-worship  of  him 
bloomed  anew. 

On  the  last  afternoon  of  their  stay,  she  strolled 


44Q  BEYOND 

out  with  him  through  one  of  the  long  woods  that 
stretched  away  behind  their  hotel.  Excited  by  the 
coming  end  of  her  self-inflicted  penance,  moved  by 
the  beauty  among  those  sunlit  trees,  she  found  it 
difficult  to  talk.  But  Win  ton,  about  to  lose  her, 
was  quite  loquacious.  Starting  from  the  sinister 
change  in  the  racing-world — so  plutocratic  now, 
with  the  American  seat,  the  increase  of  book- 
making  owners,  and  other  tragic  occurrences — he 
launched  forth  into  a  jeremiad  on  the  condition  of 
things  in  general.  Parliament,  he  thought,  espe- 
cially now  that  members  were  paid,  had  lost  its 
self-respect;  the  towns  had  eaten  up  the  country; 
hunting  was  threatened;  the  power  and  vulgarity 
of  the  press  were  appalling;  women  had  lost  their 
heads;  and  everybody  seemed  afraid  of  having 
any  "breeding."  By  the  time  little  Gyp  was  Gyp's 
age,  they  would  all  be  under  the  thumb  of  Watch 
Committees,  live  in  Garden  Cities,  and  have  to 
account  for  every  half-crown  they  spent,  and  every 
half -hour  of  their  time;  the  horse,  too,  would  be 
an  extinct  animal,  brought  out  once  a  year  at  the 
lord-mayor's  show.  He  hoped — the  deuce — he  might 
not  be  alive  to  see  it.  And  suddenly  he  added: 
"What  do  you  think  happens  after  death,  Gyp?" 
They  were  sitting  on  one  of  those  benches  that 
crop  up  suddenly  in  the  heart  of  nature.  All  around 
them  briars  and  bracken  were  just  on  the  turn; 
and  the  hum  of  flies,  the  vague  stir  of  leaves  and 
life  formed  but  a  single  sound.  Gyp,  gazing  into 
the  wood,  answered : 


BEYOND  441 

"Nothing,  Dad.    I  think  we  just  go  back." 
"Ah—    My  idea,  too!" 

Neither  of  them  had  ever  known  what  the  other 
thought  about  it  before ! 
Gyp  murmured: 


"La  vie  est  vaine — 
Un  peu  d'amour, 
Un  peu  de  haine, 
Et  puis  bonjour !" 


Not  quite  a  grunt  or  quite  a  laugh  emerged  from 
the  depths  of  Winton,  and,  looking  up  at  the  sky, 
he  said: 

"And  what  they  call  'God,'  after  all,  what  is  it? 
Just  the  very  best  you  can  get  out  of  yourself — 
nothing  more,  so  far  as  I  can  see.  Dash  it,  you 
can't  imagine  anything  more  than  you  can  imagine. 
One  would  like  to  die  in  the  open,  though,  like 
Whyte-Melville.  But  there's  one  thing  that's  al- 
ways puzzled  me,  Gyp.  All  one's  life  one's  tried 
to  have  a  single  heart.  Death  comes,  and  out  you 
go!  Then  why  did  one  love,  if  there's  to  be  no 
meeting  after?" 

"Yes;  except  for  that,  who  would  care?  But 
does  the  wanting  to  meet  make  it  any  more  likely, 
Dad?  The  world  couldn't  go  on  without  love; 
perhaps  loving  somebody  or  something  with  all 
your  heart  is  all  in  itself." 

Winton  stared;   the  remark  was  a  little  deep. 

"Ye-es,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  often  think  the 
religious  johnnies  are  saving  their  money  to  put 


442  BEYOND 

on  a  horse  that'll  never  run  after  all.  I  remember 
those  Yogi  chaps  in  India.  There  they  sat,  and 
this  jolly  world  might  rot  round  them  for  all  they 
cared — they  thought  they  were  going  to  be  all 
right  themselves,  in  Kingdom  Come.  But  suppose 
it  doesn't  come?" 

Gyp  murmured  with  a  little  smile: 

"Perhaps  they  were  trying  to  love  everything 
at  once." 

"Rum  way  of  showing  it.  And,  hang  it,  there 
are  such  a  lot  of  things  one  can't  love !  Look  at 
that!"  He  pointed  upwards.  Against  the  grey 
bole  of  a  beech-tree  hung  a  board,  on  which  were 
the  freshly  painted  words: 

PRIVATE 

TRESPASSERS   WILL  BE   PROSECUTED 

"That  board  is  stuck  up  all  over  this  life  and 
the  next.  Well,  we  won't  give  them  the  chance  to 
warn  us  off,  Gyp." 

Slipping  her  hand  through  his  arm,  she  pressed 
close  up  to  him. 

"No,  Dad;  you  and  I  will  go  off  with  the  wind 
and  the  sun,  and  the  trees  and  the  waters,  like 
Procris  in  my  picture." 


VI 

The  curious  and  complicated  nature  of  man  in 
matters  of  the  heart  is  not  sufficiently  conceded  by  * 
women,  professors,  clergymen,  judges,  and  other 
critics  of  his  conduct.  And  naturally  so,  since 
they  all  have  vested  interests  in  his  simplicity. 
Even  journalists  are  in  the  conspiracy  to  make  him 
out  less  wayward  than  he  is,  and  dip  their  pens  in 
epithets,  if  his  heart  diverges  inch  or  ell. 

Bryan  Summerhay  was  neither  more  curious  nor 
more  complicated  than  those  of  his  own  sex  who 
would  condemn  him  for  getting  into  the  midnight 
express  from  Edinburgh  with  two  distinct  emotions 
in  his  heart — a  regretful  aching  for  the  girl,  his 
cousin,  whom  he  was  leaving  behind,  and  a  rap- 
turous anticipation  of  the  woman  whom  he  was 
going  to  rejoin.  How  was  it  possible  that  he  could 
feel  both  at  once?  "Against  all  the  rules,"  women 
and  other  moralists  would  say.  Well,  the  fact  is, 
a  man's  heart  knows  no  rules.  And  he  found  it 
perfectly  easy,  lying  in  his  bunk,  to  dwell  on  mem- 
ories of  Diana  handing  him  tea,  or  glancing  up  at 
him,  while  he  turned  the  leaves  of  her  songs,  with 
that  enticing  mockery  in  her  eyes  and  about  her 
lips;  and  yet  the  next  moment  to  be  swept  from 
head  to  heel  by  the  longing  to  feel  Gyp's  arms 
around  him,  to  hear  her  voice,  look  in  her  eyes, 

443 


444  BEYOND 

and  press  his  lips  on  hers.  If,  instead  of  being  on 
his  way  to  rejoin  a  mistress,  he  had  been  going 
home  to  a  wife,  he  would  not  have  felt  a  particle 
more  of  spiritual  satisfaction,  perhaps  not  so  much. 
He  was  returning  to  the  feelings  and  companion- 
ship that  he  knew  were  the  most  deeply  satisfying 
spiritually  and  bodily  he  would  ever  have.  And 
yet  he  could  ache  a  little  for  that  red-haired  girl, 
and  this  without  any  difficulty.  How  disconcert- 
ing !    But,  then,  truth  is. 

From  that  queer  seesawing  of  his  feelings,  he  fell 
asleep,  dreamed  of  all  things  under  the  sun  as  men 
only  can  in  a  train,  was  awakened  by  the  hollow 
silence  in  some  station,  slept  again  for  hours,  it 
seemed,  and  woke  still  at  the  same  station,  fell  into 
a  sound  sleep  at  last  that  ended  at  Willesden  in 
broad  daylight.  Dressing  hurriedly,  he  found  he 
had  but  one  emotion  now,  one  longing — to  get  to 
Gyp.  Sitting  back  in  his  cab,  hands  deep-thrust 
into  the  pockets  of  his  ulster,  he  smiled,  enjoying 
even  the  smell  of  the  misty  London  morning.  Where 
would  she  be — in  the  hall  of  the  hotel  waiting,  or 
upstairs  still? 

Not  in  the  hall!  And  asking  for  her  room,  he 
made  his  way  to  its  door. 

She  was  standing  in  the  far  corner  motionless, 
deadly  pale,  quivering  from  head  to  foot;  and  when 
he  flung  his  arms  round  her,  she  gave  a  long  sigh, 
closing  her  eyes.  With  his  lips  on  hers,  he  could 
feel  her  almost  fainting;  and  he  too  had  no  con- 
sciousness of  anything  but  that  long  kiss. 


BEYOND  445 

Next  day,  they  went  abroad  to  a  little  place  not 
far  from  Fecamp,  in  that  Normandy  countryside 
where  all  things  are  large — the  people,  the  beasts, 
the  unhedged  fields,  the  courtyards  of  the  farms 
guarded  so  squarely  by  tall  trees,  the  skies,  the 
sea,  even  the  blackberries  large.  And  Gyp  was 
happy.  But  twice  there  came  letters,  in  that  too- 
well-remembered  handwriting,  which  bore  a  Scottish 
postmark.  A  phantom  increases  in  darkness,  solid- 
ifies when  seen  in  mist.  Jealousy  is  rooted  not  in 
reason,  but  in  the  nature  that  feels  it — in  her  nature 
that  loved  desperately,  felt  proudly.  And  jealousy 
flourishes  on  scepticism.  Even  if  pride  would  have 
let  her  ask,  what  good?  She  would  not  have  be- 
lieved the  answers.  Of  course  he  would  say — if 
only  out  of  pity — that  he  never  let  his  thoughts 
rest  on  another  woman.  But,  after  all,  it  was  only 
a  phantom.  There  were  many  hours  in  those  three 
weeks  when  she  felt  he  really  loved  her,  and  so — 
was  happy. 

They  went  back  to  the  Red  House  at  the  end  of 
the  first  week  in  October.  Little  Gyp,  home  from 
the  sea,  was  now  an  almost  accomplished  horse- 
woman. Under  the  tutelage  of  old  Pettance,  she 
had  been  riding  steadily  round  and  round  those 
rough  fields  by  the  linhay  which  they  called  "the 
wild,"  her  firm  brown  legs  astride  of  the  mouse- 
coloured  pony,  her  little  brown  face,  with  excited, 
dark  eyes,  very  erect,  her  auburn  crop  of  short  curls 
flopping  up  and  down  on  her  little  straight  back. 
She  wanted  to  be  able  to  "go  out  riding"  with 


446  BEYOND 

Grandy  and  Mum  and  Baryn.  And  the  first  days 
were  spent  by  them  all  more  or  less  in  fulfilling  her 
new  desires.  Then  term  began,  and  Gyp  sat  down 
again  to  the  long  sharing  of  Summerhay  with  his 
other  life. 


VII 

One  afternoon  at  the  beginning  of  November, 
the  old  Scotch  terrier,  Ossian,  lay  on  the  path  in 
the  pale  sunshine.  He  had  lain  there  all  the  morning 
since  his  master  went  up  by  the  early  train.  Nearly 
sixteen  years  old,  he  was  deaf  now  and  disillusioned, 
and  every  time  that  Summerhay  left  him,  his  eyes 
seemed  to  say:  " You  will  leave  me  once  too  often !" 
The  blandishments  of  the  other  nice  people  about 
the  house  were  becoming  to  him  daily  less  and  less 
a  substitute  for  that  which  he  felt  he  had  not  much 
time  left  to  enjoy;  nor  could  he  any  longer  bear  a 
stranger  within  the  gate.  From  her  window,  Gyp 
saw  him  get  up  and  stand  with  his  back  ridged, 
growling  at  the  postman,  and,  fearing  for  the  man's 
calves,  she  hastened  out. 

Among  the  letters  was  one  in  that  dreaded  hand-* 
writing  marked  "Immediate,"  and  forwarded  from 
his  chambers.  She  took  it  up,  and  put  it  to  her 
nose.  A  scent — of  what?  Too  faint  to  say.  Her 
thumb  nails  sought  the  edge  of  the  flap  on  either 
side.  She  laid  the  letter  down.  Any  other  letter, 
but  not  that — she  wanted  to  open  it  too  much. 
Readdressing  it,  she  took  it  out  to  put  with  the 
other  letters.  And  instantly  the  thought  went 
through  her:   'What  a  pity !    If  I  read  it,  and  there 

447 


448  BEYOND 

was  nothing ! '  All  her  restless,  jealous  misgivings 
of  months  past  would  then  be  set  at  rest!  She 
stood,  uncertain,  with  the  letter  in  her  hand.  Ah — 
but  if  there  were  something!  She  would  lose  at 
one  stroke  her  faith  in  him,  and  her  faith  in  herself 
— not  only  his  love  but  her  own  self-respect.  She 
dropped  the  letter  on  the  table.  Could  she  not 
take  it  up  to  him  herself?  By  the  three  o'clock 
slow  train,  she  could  get  to  him  soon  after  five. 
She  looked  at  her  watch.  She  would  just  have  time 
to  walk  down.  And  she  ran  upstairs.  Little  Gyp 
was  sitting  on  the  top  stair — her  favourite  seat — 
looking  at  a  picture-book. 

"I'm  going  up  to  London,  darling.  Tell  Betty 
I  may  be  back  to-night,  or  perhaps  I  may  not.  Give 
me  a  good  kiss." 
Little  Gyp  gave  the  good  kiss,  and  said: 
"Let  me  see  you  put  your  hat  on,  Mum." 
While  Gyp  was  putting  on  hat  and  furs,  she 
thought:  "I  shan't  take  a  bag;  I  can  always  make 
shift  at  Bury  Street  if — "  She  did  not  finish  the 
thought,  but  the  blood  came  up  in  her  cheeks.  "  Take 
care  of  Ossy,  darling!"  She  ran  down,  caught  up 
the  letter,  and  hastened  away  to  the  station.  In 
the  train,  her  cheeks  still  burned.  Might  not  this 
first  visit  to  his  chambers  be  like  her  old  first  visit 
to  the  little  house  in  Chelsea?  She  took  the  letter 
out.  How  she  hated  that  large,  scrawly  writing 
for  all  the  thoughts  and  fears  it  had  given  her  these 
past  months !  If  that  girl  knew  how  much  anxiety 
and  suffering  she  had  caused,  would  she  stop  writ- 


BEYOND  449 

ing,  stop  seeing  him?  And  Gyp  tried  to  conjure 
up  her  face,  that  face  seen  only  for  a  minute,  and 
the  sound  of  that  clipped,  clear  voice  but  once 
heard — the  face  and  voice  of  one  accustomed  to 
have  her  own  way.  No !  It  would  only  make  her 
go  on  all  the  more.  Fair  game,  against  a  woman 
with  no  claim — but  that  of  love.  Thank  heaven 
she  had  not  taken  him  away  from  any  woman — 
unless — that  girl  perhaps  thought  she  had !  Ah ! 
Why,  in  all  these  years,  had  she  never  got  to  know 
his  secrets,  so  that  she  might  fight  against  what 
threatened  her?  But  would  she  have  fought?  To 
fight  for  love  was  degrading,  horrible!  And  yet — 
if  one  did  not  ?  She  got  up  and  stood  at  the  window 
of  her  empty  carriage.  There  was  the  river — and 
there — yes,  the  very  backwater  where  he  had  begged 
her  to  come  to  him  for  good.  It  looked  so  different, 
bare  and  shorn,  under  the  light  grey  sky;  the  willows 
were  all  polled,  the  reeds  cut  down.  And  a  line 
from  one  of  his  favourite  sonnets  came  into  her 
mind: 

"Bare  ruined  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang." 

Ah,  well!  Time  enough  to  face  things  when  they 
came.  She  would  only  think  of  seeing  him!  And 
she  put  the  letter  back  to  burn  what  hole  it  liked  in 
the  pocket  of  her  fur  coat. 

The  train  was  late;  it  was  past  five,  already 
growing  dark,  when  she  reached  Paddington  and 
took  a  cab  to  the  Temple.     Strange  to  be  going 


45o  BEYOND 

there  for  the  first  time — not  even  to  know  exactly 
where  Harcourt  Buildings  were.  At  Temple  Lane, 
she  stopped  the  cab  and  walked  down  that  narrow, 
ill-lighted,  busy  channel  into  the  heart  of  the  Great 
Law. 

"Up  those  stone  steps,  miss;  along  the  railin', 
second  doorway."  Gyp  came  to  the  second  door- 
way and  in  the  doubtful  light  scrutinized  the  names. 
"Summerhay — second  floor."  She  began  to  climb 
the  stairs.  Her  heart  beat  fast.  What  would  he 
say?  How  greet  her?  Was  it  not  absurd,  dan- 
gerous, to  have  come?  He  would  be  having  a  con- 
sultation perhaps.  There  would  be  a  clerk  or  some- 
one to  beard,  and  what  name  could  she  give?  On 
the  first  floor  she  paused,  took  out  a  blank  card, 
and  pencilled  on  it: 

"  Can  I  see  you  a  minute? — G." 

Then,  taking  a  long  breath  to  quiet  her  heart,  she 
went  on  up.  There  was  the  name,  and  there  the 
door.  She  rang — no  one  came;  listened — could 
hear  no  sound.  All  looked  so  massive  and  bleak 
and  dim — the  iron  railings,  stone  stairs,  bare  walls, 
oak  door.  She  rang  again.  What  should  she  do? 
Leave  the  letter?  Not  see  him  after  all — her  little 
romance  all  come  to  naught — just  a  chilly  visit  to 
Bury  Street,  where  perhaps  there  would  be  no  one 
but  Mrs.  Markey,  for  her  father,  she  knew,  was 
at  Mildenham,  hunting,  and  would  not  be  up  till 
Sunday!    And  she  thought:    'I'll  leave  the  letter, 


BEYOND  451 

go  back  to  the  Strand,  have  some  tea,  and  try- 
again. ' 

She  took  out  the  letter,  with  a  sort  of  prayer 
pushed  it  through  the  slit  of  the  door,  heard  it  fall 
into  its  wire  cage;  then  slowly  descended  the  stairs 
to  the  outer  passage  into  Temple  Lane.  It  was 
thronged  with  men  and  boys,  at  the  end  of  the 
day's  work.  But  when  she  had  nearly  reached  the 
Strand,  a  woman's  figure  caught  her  eye.  She  was 
walking  with  a  man  on  the  far  side;  their  faces 
were  turned  toward  each  other.  Gyp  heard  their 
voices,  and,  faint,  dizzy,  stood  looking  back  after 
them.  They  passed  under  a  lamp ;  the  light  glinted 
on  the  woman's  hair,  on  a  trick  of  Summerhay's, 
the  lift  of  one  shoulder,  when  he  was  denying  some- 
thing; she  heard  his  voice,  high-pitched.  She 
watched  them  cross,  mount  the  stone  steps  she  had 
just  come  down,  pass  along  the  railed  stone  pas- 
sage, enter  the  doorway,  disappear.  And  such 
horror  seized  on  her  that  she  could  hardly  walk 
away. 

"Oh  no!  Oh  no!  Oh  no!"  So  it  went  in  her 
mind — a  kind  of  moaning,  like  that  of  a  cold,  rainy 
wind  through  dripping  trees.  What  did  it  mean? 
Oh,  what  did  it  mean?  In  this  miserable  tumult, 
the  only  thought  that  did  not  come  to  her  was  that 
of  going  back  to  his  chambers.  She  hurried  away. 
It  was  a  wonder  she  was  not  run  over,  for  she  had 
no  notion  what  she  was  doing,  where  going,  and 
crossed  the  streets  without  the  least  attention  to 
traffic.     She  came  to  Trafalgar  Square,  and  stood 


452  BEYOND 

leaning  against  its  parapet  in  front  of  the  National 
Gallery.  Here  she  had  her  first  coherent  thought: 
So  that  was  why  his  chambers  had  been  empty! 
No  clerk — no  one!  That  they  might  be  alone. 
Alone,  where  she  had  dreamed  of  being  alone  with 
him!  And  only  that  morning  he  had  kissed  her 
and  said,  "Good-bye,  treasure!"  A  dreadful  little 
laugh  got  caught  in  her  throat,  confused  with  a 
sob.  Why — why  had  she  a  heart?  Down  there, 
against  the  plinth  of  one  of  the  lions,  a  young  man 
leaned,  with  his  arms  round  a  girl,  pressing  her  to 
him.  Gyp  turned  away  from  the  sight  and  re- 
sumed her  miserable  wandering.  She  went  up 
Bury  Street.  No  light;  not  any  sign  of  life!  It 
did  not  matter;  she  could  not  have  gone  in,  could 
not  stay  still,  must  walk !  She  put  up  her  veil  to, 
get  more  air,  feeling  choked. 

The  trees  of  the  Green  Park,  under  which  she 
was  passing  now,  had  still  a  few  leaves,  and  they 
gleamed  in  the  lamplight  copper-coloured  as  that 
girl's  hair.  All  sorts  of  torturing  visions  came  to 
her.  Those  empty  chambers!  She  had  seen  one 
little  minute  of  their  intimacy.  A  hundred  kisses 
might  have  passed  between  them — a  thousand 
words  of  love !  And  he  would  lie  to  her.  Already 
he  had  acted  a  lie !  She  had  not  deserved  that. 
And  this  sense  of  the  injustice  done  her  was  the 
first  relief  she  felt — this  definite  emotion  of  a  mind 
clouded  by  sheer  misery.  She  had  not  deserved 
that  he  should  conceal  things  from  her.  She  had 
not  had  one  thought  or  look  for  any  man  but  him 


BEYOND  453 

since  that  night  down  by  the  sea,  when  he  came  to 
her  across  the  garden  in  the  moonlight — not  one 
thought — and  never  would !  Poor  relief  enough ! 
She  was  in  Hyde  Park  now,  wandering  along  a 
pathway  which  cut  diagonally  across  the  grass. 
And  with  more  resolution,  more  purpose,  she  began 
searching  her  memory  for  signs,  proofs  of  when 
he  had  changed  to  her.  She  could  not  find  them. 
He  had  not  changed  in  his  ways  to  her;  not  at 
all.  Could  one  act  love,  then?  Act  passion,  or — 
horrible  thought! — when  he  kissed  her  nowadays, 
was  he  thinking  of  that  girl? 

She  heard  the  rustling  of  leaves  behind.  A  youth 
was  following  her  along  the  path,  some  ravening 
youth,  whose  ungoverned  breathing  had  a  kind  of 
pathos  in  it.  Heaven!  What  irony!  She  was 
too  miserable  to  care,  hardly  even  knew  when,  in 
the  main  path  again,  she  was  free  from  his  pursuit. 
Love !  Why  had  it  such  possession  of  her,  that  a 
little  thing — yes,  a  little  thing — only  the  sight  of 
him  with  another,  should  make  her  suffer  so?  She 
came  out  on  the  other  side  of  the  park.  What 
should  she  do?  Crawl  home,  creep  into  her  hole, 
and  lie  there  stricken !  At  Paddington  she  found  a 
train  just  starting  and  got  in.  There  were  other 
people  in  the  carriage,  business  men  from  the  city, 
lawyers,  from  that — place  where  she  had  been. 
And  she  was  glad  of  their  company,  glad  of  the 
crackle  of  evening  papers  and  stolid  faces  giving  her 
looks  of  stolid  interest  from  behind  them,  glad  to 
have  to  keep  her  mask  on,  afraid  of  the  violence 


454  BEYOND 

of  her  emotion.  But  one  by  one  they  got  out,  to 
their  cars  or  their  constitutionals,  and  she  was 
left  alone  to  gaze  at  darkness  and  the  deserted 
river  just  visible  in  the  light  of  a  moon  smothered 
behind  the  sou 'westerly  sky.  And  for  one  wild 
moment  she  thought:  'Shall  I  open  the  door  and 
step  out — one  step — peace ! ' 

She  hurried  away  from  the  station.  It  was  rain- 
ing, and  she  drew  up  her  veil  to  feel  its  freshness 
on  her  hot  face.  There  was  just  light  enough  for 
her  to  see  the  pathway  through  the  beech  clump. 
The  wind  in  there  was  sighing,  soughing,  driving 
the  dark  boughs,  tearing  off  the  leaves,  little  black 
wet  shapes  that  came  whirling  at  her  face.  The 
wild  melancholy  in  that  swaying  wood  was  too 
much  for  Gyp;  she  ran,  thrusting  her  feet  through 
the  deep  rustling  drifts  of  leaves  not  yet  quite 
drenched.  They  clung  all  wet  round  her  thin  stock- 
ings, and  the  rainy  wind  beat  her  forehead.  At 
the  edge,  she  paused  for  breath,  leaning  against  the 
bole  of  a  beech,  peering  back,  where  the  wild  whirl- 
ing wind  was  moaning  and  tearing  off  the  leaves. 
Then,  bending  her  head  to  the  rain,  she  went  on 
in  the  open,  trying  to  prepare  herself  to  show 
nothing  when  she  reached  home. 

She  got  in  and  upstairs  to  her  room,  without 
being  seen.  If  she  had  possessed  any  sedative  drug 
she  would  have  taken  it.  Anything  to  secure  ob- 
livion from  this  aching  misery !  Huddling  before 
the  freshly  lighted  fire,  she  listened  to  the  wind 
driving  through  the  poplars;   and  once  more  there 


BEYOND  455 

came  back  to  her  the  words  of  that  song  sung  by 
the  Scottish  girl  at  Fiorsen's  concert: 

"And  my  heart  reft  of  its  own  sun, 
Deep  lies  in  death-torpor  cold  and  grey." 

Presently  she  crept  into  bed,  and  at  last  fell  asleep. 
She  woke  next  morning  with  the  joyful  thought: 
'It's  Saturday;  he'll  be  down  soon  after  lunch!' 
And  then  she  remembered.  Ah,  no !  It  was  too 
much!  At  the  pang  of  that  remembrance,  it  was 
as  if  a  devil  entered  into  her — a  devil  of  stubborn 
pride,  which  grew  blacker  with  every  hour  of  that 
morning.  After  lunch,  that  she  might  not  be  in 
when  he  came,  she  ordered  her  mare,  and  rode  up 
on  the  downs  alone.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the 
wind  still  blew  strong  from  the  sou'west,  and  the 
sky  was  torn  and  driven  in  swathes  of  white  and 
grey  to  north,  south,  east,  and  west,  and  puffs  of 
what  looked  like  smoke  scurried  across  the  cloud 
banks  and  the  glacier-blue  rifts  between.  The 
mare  had  not  been  out  the  day  before,  and  on  the 
springy  turf  stretched  herself  in  that  thorough- 
bred gallop  which  bears  a  rider  up,  as  it  were,  on 
air,  till  nothing  but  the  thud  of  hoofs,  the  grass 
flying  by,  the  beating  of  the  wind  in  her  face  be- 
trayed to  Gyp  that  she  was  moving.  For  full  two 
miles  they  went  without  a  pull,  only  stopped  at 
last  by  the  finish  of  the  level.  From  there,  one 
could  see  far — away  over  to  Wittenham  Clumps 
across  the  Valley,  and  to  the  high  woods  above  the 
river  in  the  east — away,  in  the  south  and  west, 


456  BEYOND 

under  that  strange,  torn  sky,  to  a  whole  autumn 
land,  of  whitish  grass,  bare  fields,  woods  of  grey 
and  gold  and  brown,  fast  being  pillaged.  But  all 
that  sweep  of  wind,  and  sky,  freshness  of  rain, 
and  distant  colour  could  not  drive  out  of  Gyp's 
heart  the  hopeless  aching  and  the  devil  begotten 
of  it. 


VIII 

There  are  men  who,  however  well-off — either 
in  money  or  love — must  gamble.  Their  affections 
may  be  deeply  rooted,  but  they  cannot  repulse 
fate  when  it  tantalizes  them  with  a  risk. 

Summerhay,  who  loved  Gyp,  was  not  tired  of 
her  either  physically  or  mentally,  and  even  felt 
sure  he  would  never  tire,  had  yet  dallied  for  months 
with  this  risk  which  yesterday  had  come  to  a  head. 
And  now,  taking  his  seat  in  the  train  to  return  to 
her,  he  felt  unquiet;  .  and  since  he  resented  dis- 
quietude, he  tried  defiantly  to  think  of  other  things, 
but  he  was  very  unsuccessful.  Looking  back,  it 
was  difficult  for  him  to  tell  when  the  snapping  of 
his  defences  had  begun.  A  preference  shown  by 
one  accustomed  to  exact  preference  is  so  insidious. 
The  girl,  his  cousin,  was  herself  a  gambler.  He  did 
not  respect  her  as  he  respected  Gyp;  she  did  not 
touch  him  as  Gyp  touched  him,  was  not — no,  not 
half — so  deeply  attractive;  but  she  had — con- 
found her!  the  power  of  turning  his  head  at  mo- 
ments, a  queer  burning,  skin-deep  fascination,  and, 
above  all,  that  most  dangerous  quality  in  a  woman 
— the  lure  of  an  imperious  vitality.  In  love  with 
life,  she  made  him  feel  that  he  was  letting  things 
slip  by.  And  since  to  drink  deep  of  life  was  his 
nature,  too — what  chance  had  he  of  escape?  Far- 
off   cousinhood   is   a   dangerous   relationship.     Its 

457 


458  BEYOND 

familiarity  is  not  great  enough  to  breed  contempt, 
but  sufficient  to  remove  those  outer  defences  to 
intimacy,  the  conquest  of  which,  in  other  circum- 
stances, demands  the  conscious  eftort  which  warns 
people  whither  they  are  going. 

Summerhay  had  not  realized  the  extent  of  the 
danger,  but  he  had  known  that  it  existed,  especially 
since  Scotland.  It  would  be  interesting — as  the 
historians  say — to  speculate  on  what  he  would 
have  done,  if  he  could  have  foretold  what  would 
happen.  But  he  had  certainly  not  foretold  the 
crisis  of  yesterday  evening.  He  had  received  a 
telegram  from  her  at  lunch-time,  suggesting  the 
fulfilment  of  a  jesting  promise,  made  in  Scotland, 
that  she  should  have  tea  with  him  and  see  his 
chambers — a  small  and  harmless  matter.  Only, 
why  had  he  dismissed  his  clerk  so  early?  That  is 
the  worst  of  gamblers — they  will  put  a  polish  on 
the  risks  they  run.  He  had  not  reckoned,  perhaps, 
that  she  would  look  so  pretty,  lying  back  in  his 
big  Oxford  chair,  with  furs  thrown  open  so  that 
her  white  throat  showed,  her  hair  gleaming,  a  smile 
coming  and  going  on  her  lips;  her  white  hand,  with 
polished  nails,  holding  that  cigarette;  her  brown 
eyes,  so  unlike  Gyp's,  fixed  on  him;  her  slim  foot 
with  high  instep  thrust  forward  in  transparent 
stocking.  Not  reckoned  that,  when  he  bent  to  take 
her  cup,  she  would  put  out  her  hands,  draw  his 
head  down,  press  her  lips  to  his,  and  say:  "Now 
you  know!"  His  head  had  gone  round,  still  went 
round,  thinking  of  it !    That  was  all.    A  little  matter 


BEYOND  459 

— except  that,  in  an  hour,  he  would  be  meeting  the 
eyes  of  one  he  loved  much  more.  And  yet — the 
poison  was  in  his  blood;  a  kiss  so  cut  short — by 
what — what  counter  impulse? — leaving  him  gazing 
at  her  without  a  sound,  inhaling  that  scent  of  hers 
— something  like  a  pine  wood's  scent,  only  sweeter, 
while  she  gathered  up  her  gloves,  fastened  her  furs, 
as  if  it  had  been  he,  not  she,  who  had  snatched  that 
kiss.  But  her  hand  had  pressed  his  arm  against 
her  as  they  went  down  the  stairs.  And  getting 
into  her  cab  at  the  Temple  Station,  she  had  looked 
back  at  him  with  a  little  half-mocking  smile  of 
challenge  and  comradeship  and  promise.  The 
link  would  be  hard  to  break — even  if  he  wanted 
to.  And  yet  nothing  would  come  of  it!  Heavens, 
no!  He  had  never  thought!  Marriage!  Impos- 
sible! Anything  else — even  more  impossible! 
When  he  got  back  to  his  chambers,  he  had  found 
in  the  box  the  letter,  which  her  telegram  had  re- 
peated, readdressed  by  Gyp  from  the  Red  House. 
And  a  faint  uneasiness  at  its  having  gone  down 
there  passed  through  him.  He  spent  a  restless 
evening  at  the  club,  playing  cards  and  losing;  sat 
up  late  in  his  chambers  over  a  case;  had  a  hard 
morning's  work,  and  only  now  that  he  was  nearing 
Gyp,  realized  how  utterly  he  had  lost  the  straight- 
forward simplicity  of  things. 

When  he  reached  the  house  and  found  that  she 
had  gone  out  riding  alone,  his  uneasiness  increased. 
Why  had  she  not  waited  as  usual  for  him  to  ride 
with  her?    And  he  paced  up  and  down  the  garden, 


460  BEYOND 

where  the  wind  was  melancholy  in  the  boughs  of 
the  walnut-tree  that  had  lost  all  its  leaves.  Little 
Gyp  was  out  for  her  walk,  and  only  poor  old  Ossy 
kept  him  company.  Had  she  not  expected  him  by 
the  usual  train?  He  would  go  and  try  to  find  out. 
He  changed  and  went  to  the  stables.  Old  Pettance 
was  sitting  on  a  corn-bin,  examining  an  aged  Ruff's 
Guide,  which  contained  records  of  his  long-past 
glory,  scored  under  by  a  pencil:  "June  Stakes: 
Agility.  E.  Pettance  3rd."  "Tidport  Selling 
H'Cap:  Dorothea,  E.  Pettance,  o."  "Salisbury 
Cup:  Also  ran  Plum  Pudding,  E.  Pettance,"  with 
other  triumphs.    He  got  up,  saying: 

"Good-afternoon,  sir;  windy  afternoon,  sir.  The 
mistress  'as  been  gone  out  over  two  hours,  sir.  She 
wouldn't  take  me  with  'er." 

"Hurry  up,  then,  and  saddle  Hotspur." 

"Yes,  sir;   very  good,  sir." 

Over  two  hours !  He  went  up  on  to  the  downs, 
by  the  way  they  generally  came  home,  and  for  an 
hour  he  rode,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  any  sign 
of  her.  No  use;  and  he  turned  home,  hot  and  un- 
easy. On  the  hall  table  were  her  riding-whip  and 
gloves.  His  heart  cleared,  and  he  ran  upstairs. 
She  was  doing  her  hair  and  turned  her  head  sharply 
as  he  entered.  Hurrying  across  the  room  he  had 
the  absurd  feeling  that  she  was  standing  at  bay. 
She  drew  back,  bent  her  face  away  from  him,  and 
said: 

"No!  Don't  pretend!  Anything's  better  than 
pretence!" 


BEYOND  461 

He  had  never  seen  her  look  or  speak  like  that 
— her  face  so  hard,  her  eyes  so  stabbing !  And  he 
recoiled  dumbfounded. 

"What's  the  matter,  Gyp?" 

"Nothing.  Only — don't  pretend!"  And,  turn- 
ing to  the  glass,  she  went  on  twisting  and  coiling 
up  her  hair. 

She  looked  lovely,  flushed  from  her  ride  in  the 
wind,  and  he  had  a  longing  to  seize  her  in  his  arms. 
But  her  face  stopped  him.  With  fear  and  a  sort 
of  anger,  he  said : 

"You  might  explain,  I  think." 

An  evil  little  smile  crossed  her  face. 

"  You  can  do  that.    I  am  in  the  dark." 

"I  don't  in  the  least  understand  what  you 
mean." 

"Don't  you?"  There  was  something  deadly  in 
her  utter  disregard  of  him,  while  her  fingers  moved 
swiftly  about  her  dark,  sliining  hair — something 
so  appallingly  sudden  in  this  hostility  that  Sum- 
merhay  felt  a  peculiar  sensation  in  his  head,  as  if 
he  must  knock  it  against  something.  He  sat  down 
on  the  side  of  the  bed.  Was  it  that  letter?  But 
how?    It  had  not  been  opened.    He  said: 

"What  on  earth  has  happened,  Gyp,  since  I 
went  up  yesterday?  Speak  out,  and  don't  keep 
me  like  this!" 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"Don't  pretend  that  you're  upset  because  you 
can't  kiss  me !  Don't  be  false,  Bryan !  You  know 
it's  been  pretence  for  months." 


462  BEYOND 

Summerhay's  voice  grew  high. 

"I  think  you've  gone  mad.  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do.  Did  you  get  a  letter  yester- 
day marked  'Immediate'?" 

Ah!  So  it  was  that!  To  meet  the  definite,  he 
hardened,  and  said  stubbornly: 

"Yes;   from  Diana  Ley  ton.    Do  you  object?" 

"No;  only,  how  do  you  think  it  got  back  to  you 
from  here  so  quickly?" 

He  said  dully: 

"I  don't  know.    By  post,  I  suppose." 

"No;  I  put  it  in  your  letter-box  myself — at  half- 
past  five." 

Summerhay's  mind  was  trained  to  quickness, 
and  the  full  significance  of  those  words  came  home 
to  him  at  once.    He  stared  at  her  fixedly. 

"I  suppose  you  saw  us,  then." 

"Yes." 

He  got  up,  made  a  helpless  movement,  and 
said: 

"Oh,  Gyp,  don't!  Don't  be  so  hard!  I  swear 
by " 

Gyp  gave  a  little  laugh,  turned  her  back,  and 
went  on  coiling  at  her  hair.  And  again  that  horrid 
feeling  that  he  must  knock  his  head  against  some- 
thing rose  in  Summerhay.    He  said  helplessly: 

"I  only  gave  her  tea.  Why  not?  She's  my 
cousin.  It's  nothing!  Why  should  you  think  the 
worst  of  me?  She  asked  to  see  my  chambers. 
Why  not?    I  couldn't  refuse." 


BEYOND  463 

"Your  empty  chambers?  Don't,  Bryan — it's  piti- 
ful !    I  can't  bear  to  hear  you." 

At  that  lash  of  the  whip,  Sunimerhay  turned 
and  said: 

"It  pleases  you  to  think  the  worst,  then?" 

Gyp  stopped  the  movement  of  her  ringers  and 
looked  round  at  him. 

"I've  always  told  you  you  were  perfectly  free. 
Do  you  think  I  haven't  felt  it  going  on  for  months? 
There  comes  a  moment  when  pride  revolts — that's 
all.    Don't  lie  to  me,  please  I" 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  lying."  But  still  he 
did  not  go.  That  awful  feeling  of  encirclement,  of 
a  net  round  him,  through  which  he  could  not  break 
— a  net  which  he  dimly  perceived  even  in  his  re- 
sentment to  have  been  spun  by  himself,  by  that 
cursed  intimacy,  kept  from  her  all  to  no  purpose 
— beset  him  more  closely  every  minute.  Could  he 
not  make  her  see  the  truth,  that  it  was  only  her  he 
really  loved?    And  he  said: 

"Gyp,  I  swear  to  you  there's  nothing  but  one 
kiss,  and  that  was  not " 

A  shudder  went  through  her  from  head  to  foot; 
she  cried  out: 

"Oh,  please  go  away!" 

He  went  up  to  her,  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders, 
and  said: 

"It's  only  you  I  really  love.  I  swear  it!  Why 
don't  you  believe  me?  You  must  believe  me.  You 
can't  be  so  wicked  as  not  to.  It's  foolish — foolish ! 
Think   of   our   life — think   of   our  love — think   of 


464  BEYOND 

all — "  Her  face  was  frozen;  he  loosened  his  grasp 
of  her,  and  muttered:    "Oh,  your  pride  is  awful!" 

"Yes,  it's  all  I've  got.  Lucky  for  you  I  have  it. 
You  can  go  to  her  when  you  like." 

"  Go  to  her !  It's  absurd — I  couldn't —  If  you 
wish,  I'll  never  see  her  again." 

She  turned  away  to  the  glass. 

"Oh,  don't!    What  is  the  use?" 

Nothing  is  harder  for  one  whom  life  has  always 
spoiled  than  to  find  his  best  and  deepest  feelings 
disbelieved  in.  At  that  moment,  Summerhay  meant 
absolutely  what  he  said.  The  girl  was  nothing  to 
him !  If  she  was  pursuing  him,  how  could  he  help 
it  ?  And  he  could  not  make  Gyp  believe  it !  How 
awful!  How  truly  terrible!  How  unjust  and  un- 
reasonable of  her !  And  why  ?  What  had  he  done 
that  she  should  be  so  unbelieving — should  think 
him  such  a  shallow  scoundrel?  Could  he  help  the 
girl's  kissing  him?  Help  her  being  fond  of  him? 
Help  having  a  man's  nature?  Unreasonable,  un- 
just, ungenerous!  And  giving  her  a  furious  look, 
he  went  out. 

He  went  down  to  his  study,  flung  himself  on  the 
sofa  and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  Devilish! 
But  he  had  not  been  there  five  minutes  before  his 
anger  seemed  childish  and  evaporated  into  the 
chill  of  deadly  and  insistent  fear.  He  was  per- 
ceiving himself  up  against  much  more  than  a  mere 
incident,  up  against  her  nature — its  pride  and 
scepticism — yes — and  the  very  depth  and  single- 
ness of  her  love.     While  she  wanted  nothing  but 


BEYOND  465 

him,  he  wanted  and  took  so  much  else.  He  per- 
ceived this  but  dimly,  as  part  of  that  feeling  that 
he  could  not  break  through,  of  the  irritable  longing 
to  put  his  head  down  and  butt  his  way  out,  no 
matter  what  the  obstacles.  What  was  coming? 
How  long  was  this  state  of  things  to  last?  He  got 
up  and  began  to  pace  the  room,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  him,  his  head  thrown  back;  and  every  now 
and  then  he  shook  that  head,  trying  to  free  it  from 
this  feeling  of  being  held  in  chancery.  And  then 
Diana!  He  had  said  he  would  not  see  her  again. 
But  was  that  possible?  After  that  kiss — after 
that  last  look  back  at  him!  How?  What  could 
he  say — do?  How  break  so  suddenly?  Then,  at 
memory  of  Gyp's  face,  he  shivered.  Ah,  how 
wretched  it  all  was !  There  must  be  some  way  out 
— some  way!  Surely  some  way  out!  For  when 
first,  in  the  wood  of  life,  fatality  halts,  turns  her 
dim  dark  form  among  the  trees,  shows  her  pale 
cheek  and  those  black  eyes  of  hers,  shows  with 
awful  swiftness  her  strange  reality — men  would 
be  fools  indeed  who  admitted  that  they  saw  her ! 


IX 

Gyp  stayed  in  her  room  doing  little  things — as  a 
woman  will  when  she  is  particularly  wretched — 
sewing  pale  ribbons  into  her  garments,  polishing 
her  rings.  And  the  devil  that  had  entered  into  her 
when  she  woke  that  morning,  having  had  his  fling, 
slunk  away,  leaving  the  old  bewildered  misery. 
She  had  stabbed  her  lover  with  words  and  looks, 
felt  pleasure  in  stabbing,  and  now  was  bitterly 
sad.  What  use — what  satisfaction?  How  by 
vengeful  prickings  cure  the  deep  wound,  disperse 
the  canker  in  her  life?  How  heal  herself  by  hurt- 
ing him  whom  she  loved  so  ?  If  he  came  up  again 
now  and  made  but  a  sign,  she  would  throw  herself 
into  his  arms.  But  hours  passed,  and  he  did  not 
come,  and  she  did  not  go  down — too  truly  miser- 
able. It  grew  dark,  but  she  did  not  draw  the  cur- 
tains; the  sight  of  the  windy  moonlit  garden  and 
the  leaves  driving  across  brought  a  melancholy 
distraction.  Little  Gyp  came  in  and  prattled. 
There  was  a  tree  blown  down,  and  she  had  climbed 
on  it;  they  had  picked  up  two  baskets  of  acorns, 
and  the  pigs  had  been  so  greedy;  and  she  had  been 
blown  away,  so  that  Betty  had  had  to  run  after 
her.  And  Baryn  was  walking  in  the  study;  he  was 
so  busy  he  had  only  given  her  one  kiss. 

When  she  was  gone,  Gyp  opened  the  window 
and  let  the  wind  full  into  her  face.    If  only  it  would 

466 


BEYOND  467 

blow  out  of  her  heart  this  sickening  sense  that  all 
was  over,  no  matter  how  he  might  pretend  to  love 
her  out  of  pity !  In  a  nature  like  hers,  so  doubting 
and  self-distrustful,  confidence,  once  shaken  to  the 
roots,  could  never  be  restored.  A  proud  nature 
that  went  all  lengths  in  love  could  never  be  content 
with  a  half-love.  She  had  been  born  too  doubting, 
proud,  and  jealous,  yet  made  to  love  too  utterly. 
She — who  had  been  afraid  of  love,  and  when  it 
came  had  fought  till  it  swept  her  away;  who,  since 
then,  had  lived  for  love  and  nothing  else,  who  gave 
all,  and  wanted  all — knew  for  certain  and  for  ever 
that  she  could  not  have  all. 

It  was  "nothing"  he  had  said!  Nothing!  That 
for  months  he  had  been  thinking  at  least  a  little  of 
another  woman  besides  herself.  She  believed  what 
he  had  told  her,  that  there  had  been  no  more  than 
a  kiss — but  was  it  nothing  that  they  had  reached 
that  kiss?  This  girl — this  cousin — who  held  all 
the  cards,  had  everything  on  her  side — the  world, 
family  influence,  security  of  life;  yes,  and  more, 
so  terribly  much  more — a  man's  longing  for  the 
young  and  unawakened.  This  girl  he  could  marry ! 
It  was  this  thought  which  haunted  her.  A  mere 
momentary  outbreak  of  man's  natural  wildness 
she  could  forgive  and  forget — oh,  yes !  It  was  the 
feeling  that  it  was  a  girl,  his  own  cousin,  besieging 
him,  dragging  him  away,  that  was  so  dreadful.  Ah, 
how  horrible  it  was — how  horrible !  How,  in  decent 
pride,  keep  him  from  her,  fetter  him? 

She  heard  him  come  up  to  his  dressing-room, 


468  BEYOND 

and  while  he  was  still  there,  stole  out  and  down. 
Life  must  go  on,  the  servants  be  hoodwinked,  and 
so  forth.  She  went  to  the  piano  and  played,  turn- 
ing the  dagger  in  her  heart,  or  hoping  forlornly 
that  music  might  work  some  miracle.  He  came 
in  presently  and  stood  by  the  fire,  silent. 

Dinner,  with  the  talk  needful  to  blinding  the 
household — for  what  is  more  revolting  than  giving 
away  the  sufferings  of  the  heart? — was  almost  un- 
endurable and  directly  it  was  over,  they  went,  he 
to  his  study,  she  back  to  the  piano.  There  she  sat, 
ready  to  strike  the  notes  if  anyone  came  in;  and 
tears  fell  on  the  hands  that  rested  in  her  lap.  With 
all  her  soul  she  longed  to  go  and  clasp  him  in  her 
arms  and  cry:  "I  don't  care — I  don't  care!  Do 
what  you  like — go  to  her — if  only  you'll  love  me  a 
little ! "  And  yet  to  love — a  little  !  Was  it  possible  ? 
Not  to  her ! 

In  sheer  misery  she  went  upstairs  and  to  bed. 
She  heard  him  come  up  and  go  into  his  dressing- 
room — and,  at  last,  in  the  firelight  saw  him  kneel- 
ing by  her. 

"Gyp!" 

She  raised  herself  and  threw  her  arms  round 
him.  Such  an  embrace  a  drowning  woman  might 
have  given.  Pride  and  all  were  abandoned  in  an 
effort  to  feel  him  close  once  more,  to  recover  the 
irrecoverable  past.  For  a  long  time  she  listened 
to  his  pleading,  explanations,  justifications,  his 
protestations  of  undying  love — strange  to  her  and 
painful,  yet  so  boyish  and  pathetic.     She  soothed 


BEYOND  469 

him,  clasping  his  head  to  her  breast,  gazing  out  at 
the  nickering  fire.  In  that  hour,  she  rose  to  a  height 
above  herself.  What  happened  to  her  own  heart 
did  not  matter  so  long  as  he  was  happy,  and  had 
all  that  he  wanted  with  her  and  away  from  her — 
if  need  be,  always  away  from  her. 

But,  when  he  had  gone  to  sleep,  a  terrible  time 
began;  for  in  the  small  hours,  when  things  are  at 
their  worst,  she  could  not  keep  back  her  weeping, 
though  she  smothered  it  into  the  pillow.  It  woke 
him,  and  all  began  again;  the  burden  of  her  cry: 
"It's  gone!"  the  burden  of  his:  "It's  not — can't 
you  see  it  isn't?"  Till,  at  last,  that  awful  feeling 
that  he  must  knock  his  head  against  the  wall  made 
him  leap  up  and  tramp  up  and  down  like  a  beast 
in  a  cage — the  cage  of  the  impossible.  For,  as  in 
all  human  tragedies,  both  were  right  according  to 
their  natures.  She  gave  him  all  herself,  wanted 
all  in  return,  and  could  not  have  it.  He  wanted 
her,  the  rest  besides,  and  no  complaining,  and  could 
not  have  it.  He  did  not  admit  impossibility;  she 
did. 

At  last  came  another  of  those  pitying  lulls  till 
he  went  to  sleep  in  her  arms.  Long  she  lay  awake, 
staring  at  the  darkness,  admitting  despair,  trying 
to  find  how  to  bear  it,  not  succeeding.  Impossible 
to  cut  his  other  life  away  from  him — impossible 
that,  while  he  lived  it,  this  girl  should  not  be  tug- 
ging him  away  from  her.  Impossible  to  watch  and 
question  him.  Impossible  to  live  dumb  and  blind, 
accepting  the  crumbs  left  over,  showing  nothing. 


47©  BEYOND 

Would  it  have  been  better  if  they  had  been  married  ? 
But  then  it  might  have  been  the  same — reversed; 
perhaps  worse!  The  roots  were  so  much  deeper 
than  that.  He  was  not  single-hearted  and  she  was. 
In  spite  of  all  that  he  said,  she  knew  he  didn't  really 
want  to  give  up  that  girl.  How  could  he?  Even 
if  the  girl  would  let  him  go!  And  slowly  there 
formed  within  her  a  gruesome  little  plan  to  test 
him.  Then,  ever  so  gently  withdrawing  her  arms, 
she  turned  over  and  slept,  exhausted. 

Next  morning,  remorselessly  carrying  out  that 
plan,  she  forced  herself  to  smile  and  talk  as  if  nothing 
had  happened,  watching  the  relief  in  his  face,  his 
obvious  delight  at  the  change,  with  a  fearful  aching 
in  her  heart.  She  waited  till  he  was  ready  to  go 
down,  and  then,  still  smiling,  said: 

"Forget  all  about  yesterday,  darling.  Promise 
me  you  won't  let  it  make  any  difference.  You 
must  keep  up  your  friendship;  you  mustn't  lose 
anything.  I  shan't  mind;  I  shall  be  quite  happy." 
He  knelt  down  and  leaned  his  forehead  against 
her  waist.  And,  stroking  his  hair,  she  repeated: 
"I  shall  only  be  happy  if  you  take  everything  that 
comes  your  way.  I  shan't  mind  a  bit."  And  she 
watched  his  face  that  had  lost  its  trouble. 

"Do  you  really  mean  that?" 

"Yes;  really!" 

"Then  you  do  see  that  it's  nothing,  never  has 
been  anything — compared  with  you — never!" 

He  had  accepted  her  crucifixion.  A  black  wave 
surged  into  her  heart. 


BEYOND  471 

"It  would  be  so  difficult  and  awkward  for  you 
to  give  up  that  intimacy.  It  would  hurt  your 
cousin  so." 

She  saw  the  relief  deepen  in  his  face  and  sud- 
denly laughed.  He  got  up  from  his  knees  and 
stared  at  her. 

"Oh,  Gyp,  for  God's  sake  don't  begin  again!" 

But  she  went  on  laughing;  then,  with  a  sob, 
turned  away  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  To 
all  his  prayers  and  kisses  she  answered  nothing, 
and  breaking  away  from  him,  she  rushed  toward 
the  door.  A  wild  thought  possessed  her.  Why  go 
on  ?  If  she  were  dead,  it  would  be  all  right  for  him, 
quiet — peaceful,  quiet — for  them  all!  But  he  had 
thrown  himself  in  the  way. 

"Gyp,  for  heaven's  sake!  I'll  give  her  up — of 
course  I'll  give  her  up.  Do — do — be  reasonable! 
I  don't  care  a  finger-snap  for  her  compared  with 
you!" 

And  presently  there  came  another  of  those  lulls 
that  both  were  beginning  to  know  were  mere  pauses 
of  exhaustion.  They  were  priceless  all  the  same, 
for  the  heart  cannot  go  on  feeling  at  that  rate. 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  the  church-bells  ringing, 
no  wind,  a  lull  in  the  sou'westerly  gale — one  of 
those  calms  that  fall  in  the  night  and  last,  as  a  rule, 
twelve  or  fifteen  hours,  and  the  garden  all  strewn 
with  leaves  of  every  hue,  from  green  spotted  with 
yellow  to  deep  copper. 

Summerhay  was  afraid;  he  kept  with  her  all 
the  morning,  making  all  sorts  of  little  things  to  do 


472  BEYOND 

in  her  company.  But  he  gradually  lost  his  fear, 
she  seemed  so  calm  now,  and  his  was  a  nature  that 
bore  trouble  badly,  ever  impatient  to  shake  it  off. 
And  then,  after  lunch,  the  spirit-storm  beat  up 
again,  with  a  swiftness  that  showed  once  more  how 
deceptive  were  those  lulls,  how  fearfully  deep  and 
lasting  the  wound.  He  had  simply  asked  her 
whether  he  should  try  to  match  something  for  her 
when  he  went  up,  to-morrow.  She  was  silent  a 
moment,  then  answered: 

"Oh,  no,  thanks;  you'll  have  other  things  to  do; 
people  to  see ! " 

The  tone  of  her  voice,  the  expression  on  her  face 
showed  him,  with  a  fresh  force  of  revelation,  what 
paralysis  had  fallen  on  his  life.  If  he  could  not  re- 
convince  her  of  his  love,  he  would  be  in  perpetual 
fear — that  he  might  come  back  and  find  her  gone, 
fear  that  she  might  even  do  something  terrible  to 
herself.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  horror, 
and,  without  a  word,  went  out  of  the  room.  The 
feeling  that  he  must  hit  his  head  against  something 
was  on  him  once  more,  and  once  more  he  sought  to 
get  rid  of  it  by  tramping  up  and  down.  Great  God ! 
Such  a  little  thing,  such  fearful  consequences!  All 
her  balance,  her  sanity  almost,  destroyed.  Was 
what  he  had  done  so  very  dreadful?  He  could  not 
help  Diana  loving  him ! 

In  the  night,  Gyp  had  said:  "You  are  cruel. 
Do  you  think  there  is  any  man  in  the  world  that  I 
wouldn't  hate  the  sight  of  if  I  knew  that  to  see  him 
gave  you  a  moment's  pain?"    It  was  true — he  felt 


BEYOND  473 

it  was  true.  But  one  couldn't  hate  a  girl  simply 
because  she  loved  you;  at  least  he  couldn't — not 
even  to  save  Gyp  pain.  That  was  not  reasonable, 
not  possible.  But  did  that  difference  between  a 
man  and  a  woman  necessarily  mean  that  Gyp  loved 
him  so  much  more  than  he  loved  her?  Could  she 
not  see  things  in  proportion  ?  See  that  a  man  might 
want,  did  want,  other  friendships,  even  passing 
moments  of  passion,  and  yet  could  love  her  just 
the  same?  She  thought  him  cruel,  called  him  cruel 
— what  for?  Because  he  had  kissed  a  girl  who  had 
kissed  him;  because  he  liked  talking  to  her,  and — 
yes,  might  even  lose  his  head  with  her.  But  cruel ! 
He  was  not !  Gyp  would  always  be  first  with  him. 
He  must  make  her  see — but  how?  Give  up  every- 
thing? Give  up — Diana?  (Truth  is  so  funny — 
it  will  out  even  in  a  man's  thoughts!)  Well,  and 
he  could!  His  feeling  was  not  deep — that  was 
God's  truth!  But  it  would  be  difficult,  awkward, 
brutal  to  give  her  up  completely !  It  could  be  done, 
though,  sooner  than  that  Gyp  should  think  him 
cruel  to  her.    It  could  be — should  be  done! 

Only,  would  it  be  any  use?  Would  she  believe? 
Would  she  not  always  now  be  suspecting  him  when 
he  was  away  from  her,  whatever  he  did?  Must  he 
then  sit  down  here  in  inactivity?  And  a  gust  of 
anger  with  her  swept  him.  Why  should  she  treat 
him  as  if  he  were  utterly  unreliable?  Or — was  he? 
He  stood  still.  When  Diana  had  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  he  could  no  more  have  resisted  an- 
swering her  kiss  than  he  could  now  fly  through  the 


474  BEYOND 

window  and  over  those  poplar  trees.  But  he  was 
not  a  blackguard,  not  cruel,  not  a  liar !  How  could 
he  have  helped  it  all?  The  only  way  would  have 
been  never  to  have  answered  the  girl's  first  letter, 
nearly  a  year  ago.  How  could  he  foresee?  And, 
since  then,  all  so  gradual,  and  nothing,  really,  or 
almost  nothing.  Again  the  surge  of  anger  swelled 
his  heart.  She  must  have  read  the  letter  which 
had  been  under  that  cursed  bust  of  old  Voltaire 
all  those  months  ago.  The  poison  had  been  work- 
ing ever  since !  And  in  sudden  fury  at  that  miser- 
able mischance,  he  drove  his  fist  into  the  bronze 
face.  The  bust  fell  over,  and  Summerhay  looked 
stupidly  at  his  bruised  hand.  A  silly  thing  to  do ! 
But  it  had  quenched  his  anger.  He  only  saw  Gyp's 
face  now — so  pitifully  unhappy.  Poor  darling ! 
What  could  he  do  ?  If  only  she  would  believe ! 
And  again  he  had  the  sickening  conviction  that 
whatever  he  did  would  be  of  no  avail.  He  could 
never  get  back,  was  only  at  the  beginning,  of  a 
trouble  that  had  no  end.  And,  like  a  rat  in  a  cage, 
his  mind  tried  to  rush  out  of  this  entanglement  now 
at  one  end,  now  at  the  other.  Ah,  well !  Why 
bruise  your  head  against  walls?  If  it  was  hopeless 
— let  it  go !  And,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  he  went 
out  to  the  stables,  and  told  old  Pettance  to  saddle 
Hotspur.  While  he  stood  there  waiting,  he  thought: 
'Shall  I  ask  her  to  come?'  But  he  could  not  stand 
another  bout  of  misery — must  have  rest!  And 
mounting,  he  rode  up  towards  the  downs. 

Hotspur,    the    sixteen-hand    brown    horse,    with 


BEYOND  475 

not  a  speck  of  white,  that  Gyp  had  ridden  hunting 
the  day  she  first  saw  Summerhay,  was  nine  years 
old  now.  His  master's  two  faults  as  a  horseman 
— a  habit  of  thrusting,  and  not  too  light  hands — 
had  encouraged  his  rather  hard  mouth,  and  some- 
thing had  happened  in  the  stables  to-day  to  put 
him  into  a  queer  temper;  or  perhaps  he  felt — as 
horses  will — the  disturbance  raging  within  his  rider. 
At  any  rate,  he  gave  an  exhibition  of  his  worst 
qualities,  and  Summerhay  derived  perverse  pleasure 
from  that  waywardness.  He  rode  a  good  hour  up 
there;  then,  hot,  with  aching  arms — for  the  brute 
was  pulling  like  the  devil ! — he  made  his  way  back 
toward  home  and  entered  what  little  Gyp  called 
"the  wild,"  those  two  rough  sedgy  fields  with  the 
linhay  in  the  corner  where  they  joined.  There  was 
a  gap  in  the  hedge-growth  of  the  bank  between 
them,  and  at  this  he  put  Hotspur  at  speed.  The 
horse  went  over  like  a  bird;  and  for  the  first  time 
since  Diana's  kiss  Summerhay  felt  a  moment's 
joy.  He  turned  him  round  and  sent  him  at  it  again, 
and  again  Hotspur  cleared  it  beautifully.  But  the 
animal's  blood  was  up  now.  Summerhay  could 
hardly  hold  him.  Muttering:  "Oh,  you  brute, 
don't  pull!"  he  jagged  the  horse's  mouth.  There 
darted  into  his  mind  Gyp's  word:  "Cruel!"  And, 
viciously,  in  one  of  those  queer  nerve-crises  that 
beset  us  all,  he  struck  the  pulling  horse. 

They  were  cantering  toward  the  corner  where 
the  fields  joined,  and  suddenly  he  was  aware  that 
he  could  no  more  hold  the  beast  than  if  a  steam- 


476  BEYOND 

engine  had  been  under  him.  Straight  at  the  lin- 
hay  Hotspur  dashed,  and  Summerhay  thought: 
"My  God!  He'll  kill  himself!"  Straight  at  the 
old  stone  linhay,  covered  by  the  great  ivy  bush. 
Right  at  it — into  it !  Summerhay  ducked  his  head. 
Not  low  enough — the  ivy  concealed  a  beam !  A 
sickening  crash !  Torn  backward  out  of  the  saddle, 
he  fell  on  his  back  in  a  pool  of  leaves  and  mud.  And 
the  horse,  slithering  round  the  linhay  walls,  checked 
in  his  own  length,  unhurt,  snorting,  frightened, 
came  out,  turning  his  wild  eyes  on  his  master,  who 
never  stirred,  then  trotted  back  into  the  field, 
throwing  up  his  head. 


X 

When,  at  her  words,  Summerhay  went  out  of 
the  room,  Gyp's  heart  sank.  All  the  morning  she 
had  tried  so  hard  to  keep  back  her  despairing 
jealousy,  and  now  at  the  first  reminder  had  broken 
down  again.  It  was  beyond  her  strength !  To  live 
day  after  day  knowing  that  he,  up  in  London,  was 
either  seeing  that  girl  or  painfully  abstaining  from 
seeing  her!  And  then,  when  he  returned,  to  be 
to  him  just  what  she  had  been,  to  show  nothing 
— would  it  ever  be  possible?  Hardest  to  bear  was 
what  seemed  to  her  the  falsity  of  his  words,  main- 
taining that  he  still  really  loved  her.  If  he  did, 
how  could  he  hesitate  one  second?  Would  not 
the  very  thought  of  the  girl  be  abhorrent  to  him? 
He  would  have  shown  that,  not  merely  said  it  among 
other  wild  things.  Words  were  no  use  when  they 
contradicted  action.  She,  who  loved  with  every 
bit  of  her,  could  not  grasp  that  a  man  can  really 
love  and  want  one  woman  and  yet,  at  the  same  time, 
be  attracted  by  another. 

That  sudden  fearful  impulse  of  the  morning  to 
make  away  with  herself  and  end  it  for  them  both 
recurred  so  vaguely  that  it  hardly  counted  in  her 
struggles;  the  conflict  centred  now  round  the  ques- 
tion whether  life  would  be  less  utterly  miserable 
if  she  withdrew  from  him  and  went  back  to  Milden- 

477 


478  BEYOND 

ham.  Life  without  him?  That  was  impossible! 
Life  with  him?  Just  as  impossible,  it  seemed! 
There  comes  a  point  of  mental  anguish  when  the 
alternatives  between  which  one  swings,  equally 
hopeless,  become  each  so  monstrous  that  the 
mind  does  not  really  work  at  all,  but  rushes  help- 
lessly from  one  to  the  other,  no  longer  trying  to 
decide,  waiting  on  fate.  So  in  Gyp  that  Sunday 
afternoon,  doing  little  things  all  the  time — mend- 
ing a  hole  in  one  of  his  gloves,  brushing  and  apply- 
ing ointment  to  old  Ossy,  sorting  bills  and  letters. 

At  five  o'clock,  knowing  little  Gyp  must  soon 
be  back  from  her  walk,  and  feeling  unable  to  take 
part  in  gaiety,  she  went  up  and  put  on  her  hat.  She 
turned  from  contemplation  of  her  face  with  dis- 
gust. Since  it  was  no  longer  the  only  face  for  him, 
what  was  the  use  of  beauty?  She  slipped  out  by 
the  side  gate  and  went  down  toward  the  river.  The 
lull  was  over;  the  south-west  wind  had  begun  sigh- 
ing through  the  trees  again,  and  gorgeous  clouds 
were  piled  up  from  the  horizon  into  the  pale  blue. 
She  stood  by  the  river  watching  its  grey  stream, 
edged  by  a  scum  of  torn-off  twigs  and  floating  leaves, 
watched  the  wind  shivering  through  the  spoiled 
plume-branches  of  the  willows.  And,  standing 
there,  she  had  a  sudden  longing  for  her  father;  he 
alone  could  help  her — just  a  little — by  his  quietness, 
and  his  love,  by  his  mere  presence. 

She  turned  away  and  went  up  the  lane  again, 
avoiding  the  inn  and  the  riverside  houses,  walking 
slowly,  her  head  down.    And  a  thought  came,  her 


BEYOND  479 

first  hopeful  thought.  Could  they  not  travel — go 
round  the  world?  Would  he  give  up  his  work  for 
that — that  chance  to  break  the  spell?  Dared  she 
propose  it?  But  would  even  that  be  anything  more 
than  a  putting-off?  If  she  was  not  enough  for  him 
now,  would  she  not  be  still  less,  if  his  work  were 
cut  away?  Still,  it  was  a  gleam,  a  gleam  in  the 
blackness.  She  came  in  at  the  far  end  of  the  fields 
they  called  "the  wild."  A  rose-leaf  hue  tinged  the 
white  cloud-banks,  which  towered  away  to  the 
east  beyond  the  river;  and  peeping  over  that  moun- 
tain-top was  the  moon,  fleecy  and  unsubstantial 
in  the  flax-blue  sky.  It  was  one  of  nature's  mo- 
ments of  wild  colour.  The  oak-trees  above  the 
hedgerows  had  not  lost  their  leaves,  and  in  the  dart- 
ing, rain-washed  light  from  the  setting  sun,  had  a 
sheen  of  old  gold  with  heart  of  ivy-green;  the  half- 
stripped  beeches  flamed  with  copper;  the  russet 
tufts  of  the  ash-trees  glowed.  And  past  Gyp,  a 
single  leaf  blown  off,  went  soaring,  turning  over 
and  over,  going  up  on  the  rising  wind,  up — up, 
higher — higher  into  the  sky,  till  it  was  lost — away. 
The  rain  had  drenched  the  long  grass,  and  she 
turned  back.  At  the  gate  beside  the  linhay,  a  horse 
was  standing.  It  whinnied.  Hotspur,  saddled, 
bridled,  with  no  rider!  Why?  Where — then? 
Hastily  she  undid  the  latch,  ran  through,  and  saw 
Summerhay  lying  in  the  mud — on  his  back,  with 
eyes  wide-open,  his  forehead  and  hair  all  blood. 
Some  leaves  had  dropped  on  him.  God !  O  God ! 
His   eyes  had  no  sight,   his    lips  no  breath;    his 


480  BEYOND 

heart  did  not  beat;  the  leaves  had  dropped  even 
on  his  face — in  the  blood  on  his  poor  head.  Gyp 
raised  him — stiffened,  cold  as  ice!  She  gave  one 
cry,  and  fell,  embracing  his  dead,  stiffened  body 
with  all  her  strength,  kissing  his  lips,  his  eyes,  his 
broken  forehead;  clasping,  warming  him,  trying 
to  pass  life  into  him;  till,  at  last,  she,  too,  lay  still, 
her  lips  on  his  cold  lips,  her  body  on  his  cold  body 
in  the  mud  and  the  fallen  leaves,  while  the  wind 
crept  and  rustled  in  the  ivy,  and  went  over  with  the 
scent  of  rain.  Close  by,  the  horse,  uneasy,  put  his 
head  down  and  sniffed  at  her,  then,  backing  away, 
neighed,  and  broke  into  a  wild  gallop  round  the 
field.  .  .  . 

Old  Pettance,  waiting  for  Summerhay's  return  to 
stable-up  for  the  night,  heard  that  distant  neigh 
and  went  to  the  garden  gate,  screwing  up  his  little 
eyes  against  the  sunset.  He  could  see  a  loose  horse 
galloping  down  there  in  "  the  wild,"  where  no  horse 
should  be,  and  thinking:  "There  now;  that  artful 
devil's  broke  away  from  the  guv'nor!  Now  I'll 
'ave  to  ketch  'im!'  he  went  back,  got  some  oats, 
and  set  forth  at  the  best  gait  of  his  stiff-jointed  feet. 
The  old  horseman  characteristically  did  not  think 
of  accidents.  The  guv'nor  had  got  off,  no  doubt, 
to  unhitch  that  heavy  gate — the  one  you  had  to 
lift.  That  'orse — he  was  a  masterpiece  of  mischief ! 
His  difference  with  the  animal  still  rankled  in  a 
mind  that  did  not  easily  forgive. 

Half  an  hour  later,  he  entered  the  lighted  kitchen 
shaking  and  gasping,   tears  rolling  down  his  fur- 


BEYOND  481 

rowed  cheeks  into  the  corners  of  his  gargovle's 
mouth,  and  panted  out: 

"0,  my  Gord!  Fetch  the  farmer — fetch  an 
'urdle !  O  my  Gord !  Betty,  you  and  cook — I 
can't  get  'er  off  him.  She  don't  speak.  I  felt  her — 
all  cold.  Come  on,  you  sluts — quick !  O  my  Gord ! 
The  poor  guv'nor!  That  'orse  must  'a'  galloped 
into  the  linhay  and  killed  him.  I've  see'd  the  marks 
on  the  devil's  shoulder  where  he  rubbed  it  scrapin' 
round  the  wall.  Come  on — come  on!  Fetch  an 
'urdle  or  she'll  die  there  on  him  in  the  mud.  Put 
the  child  to  bed  and  get  the  doctor,  and  send  a  wire 
to  London,  to  the  major,  to  come  sharp.  Oh,  blarst 
you  all — keep  your  'eads!  What's  the  good  o' 
howlin'  and  blubberin' ! " 

In  the  whispering  corner  of  those  fields,  light 
from  a  lantern  and  the  moon  fell  on  the  old  stone 
linhay,  on  the  ivy  and  the  broken  gate,  on  the  mud, 
the  golden  leaves,  and  the  two  quiet  bodies  clasped 
together.  Gyp's  consciousness  had  flown;  there 
seemed  no  difference  between  them.  And  pres- 
ently, over  the  rushy  grass,  a  procession  moved 
back  in  the  wind  and  the  moonlight — two  hurdles, 
two  men  carrying  one,  two  women  and  a  man  the 
other,  and,  behind,  old  Pettance  and  the  horse. 


XI 

When  Gyp  recovered  a  consciousness,  whose 
flight  had  been  mercifully  renewed  with  morphia, 
she  was  in  her  bed,  and  her  first  drowsy  movement 
was  toward  her  mate.  With  eyes  still  closed,  she 
turned,  as  she  was  wont,  and  put  out  her  hand  to 
touch  him  before  she  dozed  off  again.  There  was 
no  warmth,  no  substance;  through  her  mind,  still 
away  in  the  mists  of  morphia,  the  thoughts  passed 
vague  and  lonely:  'Ah,  yes,  in  London!'  And  she 
turned  on  her  back.  London !  Something — some- 
thing up  there!  She  opened  her  eyes.  So  the  fire 
had  kept  in  all  night!  Someone  was  in  a  chair 
there,  or — was  she  dreaming !  And  suddenly,  with- 
out knowing  why,  she  began  breathing  hurriedly  in 
little  half-sobbing  gasps.  The  figure  moved,  turned 
her  face  in  the  firelight.  Betty!  Gyp  closed  her 
eyes.  An  icy  sweat  had  broken  out  all  over  her. 
A  dream !    In  a  whisper,  she  said : 

"Betty!" 

The  muffled  answer  came. 

"Yes,  my  darlin'." 

"What  is  it?" 

No  answer;  then  a  half-choked,  "Don't  'ee  think 
— don't  'ee  think !  Your  Daddy '11  be  here  directly, 
my  sweetie ! " 

Gyp's  eyes,  wide  open,  passed  from  the  firelight 
and  that  rocking  figure  to  the  little  chink  of  light 


BEYOND  483 

that  was  hardly  light  as  yet,  coming  in  at  one  corner 
of  the  curtain.  She  was  remembering.  Her  tongue 
stole  out  and  passed  over  her  lips;  beneath  the 
bedclothes  she  folded  both  her  hands  tight  across 
her  heart.  Then  she  was  not  dead  with  him — not 
dead !     Not  gone  back  with  him  into  the  ground 

— not And  suddenly  there  flickered  in  her  a 

flame  of  maniacal  hatred.  They  were  keeping  her 
alive !  A  writhing  smile  forced  its  way  up  on  to 
her  parched  lips. 

"Betty,  I'm  so  thirsty — so  thirsty.  Get  me  a 
cup  of  tea." 

The  stout  form  heaved  itself  from  the  chair  and 
came  toward  the  bed. 

"Yes,  my  lovey,  at  once.  It'll  do  you  good. 
That's  a  brave  girl." 

"Yes." 

The  moment  the  door  clicked  to,  Gyp  sprang 
up.  Her  veins  throbbed;  her  whole  soul  was  alive 
with  cunning.  She  ran  to  the  wardrobe,  seized  her 
long  fur  coat,  slipped  her  bare  feet  into  her  slippers, 
wound  a  piece  of  lace  round  her  head,  and  opened 
the  door.  All  dark  and  quiet !  Holding  her  breath, 
stifling  the  sound  of  her  feet,  she  glided  down  the 
stairs,  slipped  back  the  chain  of  the  front  door, 
opened  it,  and  fled.  Like  a  shadow  she  passed  across 
the  grass,  out  of  the  garden  gate,  down  the  road 
under  the  black  dripping  trees.  The  beginning  of 
light  was  mixing  its  grey  hue  into  the  darkness; 
she  could  just  see  her  feet  among  the  puddles  on 
the  road.     She  heard  the  grinding  and  whirring  of 


484  BEYOND 

a  motor-car  on  its  top  gear  approaching  up  the 
hill,  and  cowered  away  against  the  hedge.  Its 
light  came  searching  along,  picking  out  with  a  mys- 
terious momentary  brightness  the  bushes  and  tree- 
trunks,  making  the  wet  road  gleam.  Gyp  saw  the 
chauffeur  turn  his  head  back  at  her,  then  the  car's 
body  passed  up  into  darkness,  and  its  tail-light 
was  all  that  was  left  to  see.  Perhaps  that  car  was 
going  to  the  Red  House  with  her  father,  the  doctor, 
somebody,  helping  to  keep  her  alive !  The  maniacal 
hate  flared  up  in  her  again;  she  flew  on.  The  light 
grew;  a  man  with  a  dog  came  out  of  a  gate  she  had 
passed,  and  called  "Hallo!"  She  did  not  turn  her 
head.  She  had  lost  her  slippers,  and  ran  with  bare 
feet,  unconscious  of  stones,  or  the  torn-off  branches 
strewing  the  road,  making  for  the  lane  that  ran 
right  down  to  the  river,  a  little  to  the  left  of  the 
inn,  the  lane  of  yesterday,  where  the  bank  was 
free. 

She  turned  into  the  lane;  dimly,  a  hundred  or 
more  yards  away,  she  could  see  the  willows,  the 
width  of  lighter  grey  that  was  the  river.  The  river 
— "Away,  my  rolling  river!" — the  river — and  the 
happiest  hours  of  all  her  life !  If  he  were  anywhere, 
she  would  find  him  there,  where  he  had  sung,  and 
lain  with  his  head  on  her  breast,  and  swum  and 
splashed  about  her;  where  she  had  dreamed,  and 
seen  beauty,  and  loved  him  so !  She  reached  the 
bank.  Cold  and  grey  and  silent,  swifter  than  yes- 
terday, the  stream  was  flowing  by,  its  dim  far  shore 
brightening  slowly  in  the  first  break  of  dawn.    And 


BEYOND  485 

Gyp  stood  motionless,  drawing  her  breath  in  gasps 
after  her  long  run;  her  knees  trembled;  gave  way. 
She  sat  down  on  the  wet  grass,  clasping  her  arms 
round  her  drawn-up  legs,  rocking  herself  to  and 
fro,  and  her  loosened  hair  fell  over  her  face.  The 
blood  beat  in  her  ears;  her  heart  felt  suffocated; 
all  her  body  seemed  on  fire,  yet  numb.  She  sat, 
moving  her  head  up  and  down — as  the  head  of  one 
moves  that  is  gasping  her  last — waiting  for  breath 
— breath  and  strength  to  let  go  life,  to  slip  down 
into  the  grey  water.  And  that  queer  apartness 
from  self,  which  is  the  property  of  fever,  came  on 
her,  so  that  she  seemed  to  see  herself  sitting  there, 
waiting,  and  thought:  'I  shall  see  myself  dead, 
floating  among  the  reeds.  I  shall  see  the  birds  won- 
dering above  me ! '  And,  suddenly,  she  broke  into 
a  storm  of  dry  sobbing,  and  all  things  vanished 
from  her,  save  just  the  rocking  of  her  body,  the 
gasping  of  her  breath,  and  the  sound  of  it  in  her 
ears.  Her  boy — her  boy — and  his  poor  hair! 
"Away,  my  rolling  river!"  Swaying  over,  she  lay 
face  down,  clasping  at  the  wet  grass  and  the  earth. 
The  sun  rose,  laid  a  pale  bright  streak  along  the 
water,  and  hid  .himself  again.  A  robin  twittered 
in  the  willows;   a  leaf  fell  on  her  bare  ankle. 

Winton,  who  had  been  hunting  on  Saturday, 
had  returned  to  town  on  Sunday  by  the  evening 
train,  and  gone  straight  to  his  club  for  some  supper. 
There  falling  asleep  over  his  cigar,  he  had  to  be 
awakened  when  they  desired  to  close  the  club  for 


486  BEYOND 

the  night.    It  was  past  two  when  he  reached  Bury 
Street  and  found  a  telegram. 

"Something  dreadful  happened  to  Mr.  Summer- 
hay.    Come  quick. — Betty." 

Never  had  he  so  cursed  the  loss  of  his  hand  as 
during  the  time  that  followed,  when  Markey  had 
to  dress,  help  his  master,  pack  bags,  and  fetch  a 
taxi  equipped  for  so  long  a  journey.  At  half-past 
three  they  started.  The  whole  way  down,  Winton, 
wrapped  in  his  fur  coat,  sat  a  little  forward  on  his 
seat,  ready  to  put  his  head  through  the  window  and 
direct  the  driver.  It  was  a  wild  night,  and  he  would 
not  let  Markey,  whose  chest  was  not  strong,  go 
outside  to  act  as  guide.  Twice  that  silent  one, 
impelled  by  feelings  too  strong  even  for  his  respect- 
ful taciturnity,  had  spoken. 

"That'll  be  bad  for  Miss  Gyp,  sir." 

"Bad,  yes — terrible." 

And  later: 

"D'you  think  it  means  he's  dead,  sir?" 

Winton  answered  sombrely: 

"God  knows,  Markey!  We  must  hope  for  the 
best." 

Dead!  Could  Fate  be  cruel  enough  to  deal  one 
so  soft  and  loving  such  a  blow?  And  he  kept  say- 
ing  to  himself :  "Courage.  Be  ready  for  the  worst. 
Be  ready." 

But  the  figures  of  Betty  and  a  maid  at  the  open 
garden   gate,   in   the   breaking  darkness,    standing 


BEYOND  487 

there  wringing  their  hands,  were  too  much  for  his 
stoicism.    Leaping  out,  he  cried: 

"What  is  it,  woman ?    Quick ! " 

"Oh,  sir!  My  dear's  gone.  I  left  her  a  moment 
to  get  her  a  cup  of  tea.  And  she's  run  out  in  the 
cold!" 

Winton  stood  for  two  seconds  as  if  turned  to 
stone.  Then,  taking  Betty  by  the  shoulder,  he 
asked  quietly: 

"What  happened  to  him?" 

Betty  could  not  answer,  but  the  maid  said: 

"The  horse  killed  him  at  that  linhay,  sir,  down 
in  'the  wild.'  And  the  mistress  was  unconscious 
till  quarter  of  an  hour  ago." 

"Which  way  did  she  go?" 

"Out  here,  sir;  the  door  and  the  gate  was  open 
— can't  tell  which  way." 

Through  Winton  flashed  one  dreadful  thought: 
The  river ! 

"Turn  the  cab  round!  Stay  in,  Markey !  Betty 
and  you,  girl,  go  down  to  'the  wild,'  and  search 
there  at  once.    Yes?    What  is  it?" 

The  driver  was  leaning  out. 

"As  we  came  up  the  hill,  sir,  I  see  a  lady  or  some- 
thing in  a  long  dark  coat  with  white  on  her  head, 
against  the  hedge." 

"Right!  Drive  down  again  sharp,  and  use  your 
eyes." 

At  such  moments,  thought  is  impossible,  and  a 
feverish  use  of  every  sense  takes  its  place.  But  of 
thought  there  was  no  need,  for  the  gardens  of  villas 


488  BEYOND 

and  the  inn  blocked  the  river  at  all  but  one  spot. 
Winton  stopped  the  car  where  the  narrow  lane 
branched  down  to  the  bank,  and  jumping  out,  ran. 
By  instinct  he  ran  silently  on  the  grass  edge,  and 
Markey,  imitating,  ran  behind.  When  he  came  in 
sight  of  a  black  shape  lying  on  the  bank,  he  suffered 
a  moment  of  intense  agony,  for  he  thought  it  was 
just  a  dark  garment  thrown  away.  Then  he  saw 
it  move,  and,  holding  up  his  hand  for  Markey  to 
stand  still,  walked  on  alone,  tiptoeing  in  the  grass, 
his  heart  swelling  with  a  sort  of  rapture.  Stealthily 
moving  round  between  that  prostrate  figure  and 
the  water,  he  knelt  down  and  said,  as  best  he  could, 
for  the  husk  in  his  throat: 

"My  darling!" 

Gyp  raised  her  head  and  stared  at  him.  Her 
white  face,  with  eyes  unnaturally  dark  and  large, 
and  hair  falling  all  over  it,  was  strange  to  him — 
the  face  of  grief  itself,  stripped  of  the  wrappings  of 
form.  And  he  knew  not  what  to  do,  how  to  help 
or  comfort,  how  to  save.  He  could  see  so  clearly 
in  her  eyes  the  look  of  a  wild  animal  at  the  moment 
of  its  capture,  and  instinct  made  him  say: 

"I  lost  her  just  as  cruelly,  Gyp." 

He  saw  the  words  reach  her  brain,  and  that  wild 
look  waver.  Stretching  out  his  arm,  he  drew  her 
close  to  him  till  her  cheek  was  against  his,  her 
shaking  body  against  him,  and  kept  murmuring: 

"For  my  sake,  Gyp;  for  my  sake !" 

When,  with  Markey's  aid,  he  had  got  her  to  the 
cab,  they  took  her,  not  back  to  the  house,  but  to 


BEYOND  489 

the  inn.  She  was  in  high  fever,  and  soon  delirious. 
By  noon,  Aunt  Rosamund  and  Mrs.  Markey,  sum- 
moned by  telegram,  had  arrived;  and  the  whole 
inn  was  taken  lest  there  should  be  any  noise  to  dis- 
turb her. 

At  five  o'clock,  Winton  was  summoned  down- 
stairs to  the  little  so-called  reading-room.  A  tall 
woman  was  standing  at  the  window,  shading  her 
eyes  with  the  back  of  a  gloved  hand.  Though  they 
had  lived  so  long  within  ten  miles  of  each  other  he 
only  knew  Lady  Summerhay  by  sight,  and  he  waited 
for  the  poor  woman  to  speak  first.  She  said  in  a 
low  voice : 

"There  is  nothing  to  say;  only,  I  thought  I  must 
see  you.    How  is  she?" 

"Delirious." 

They  stood  in  silence  a  full  minute,  before  she 
whispered : 

"My  poor  boy!  Did  you  see  him — his  fore- 
head?" Her  lips  quivered.  "I  will  take  him  back 
home."  And  tears  rolled,  one  after  the  other,  slowly 
down  her  flushed  face  under  her  veil.  Poor  woman ! 
Poor  woman !  She  had  turned  to  the  window, 
passing  her  handkerchief  up  under  the  veil,  staring 
out  at  the  little  strip  of  darkening  lawn,  and  Winton, 
too,  stared  out  into  that  mournful  daylight.  At 
last,  he  said: 

"I  will  send  you  all  his  things,  except — except 
anything  that  might  help  my  poor  girl." 

She  turned  quickly. 

"And   so   it's    ended  like  this!    Major  Winton, 


490  BEYOND 

is  there  anything  behind  —  were  they  really 
happy  ?  " 

Winton  looked  straight  at  her  and  answered: 

"Ah,  too  happy!" 

Without  a  quiver,  he  met  those  tear-darkened, 
dilated  eyes  straining  at  his;  with  a  heavy  sigh,  she 
once  more  turned  away,  and,  brushing  her  hand- 
kerchief across  her  face,  drew  down  her  veil. 

It  was  not  true — he  knew  from  the  mutterings  of 
Gyp's  fever — but  no  one,  not  even  Summerhay's 
mother,  should  hear  a  whisper  if  he  could  help  it. 
At  the  door,  he  murmured: 

"I  don't  know  whether  my  girl  will  get  through, 
or  what  she  will  do  after.  When  Fate  hits,  she  hits 
too  hard.    And  you  !    Good-bye." 

Lady  Summerhay  pressed  his  outstretched  hand. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  in  a  strangled  voice.  "I 
wish  you — good-bye."  Then,  turning  abruptly,  she 
hastened  away. 

Winton  went  back  to  his  guardianship  upstairs. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  when  Gyp,  robbed  of 
memory,  hung  between  life  and  death,  Winton 
hardly  left  her  room,  that  low  room  with  creepered 
windows  whence  the  river  could  be  seen,  gliding 
down  under  the  pale  November  sunshine  or  black 
beneath  the  stars.  He  would  watch  it,  fascinated,  as 
one  sometimes  watches  the  relentless  sea.  He  had 
snatched  her  as  by  a  miracle  from  that  snaky  river. 

He  had  refused  to  have  a  nurse.  Aunt  Rosamund 
and  Mrs.  Markey  were  skilled  in  sickness,  and  he 
could  not  bear  that  a  strange  person  should  listen 


BEYOND  491 

to  those  delirious  mutterings.  His  own  part  of 
the  nursing  was  just  to  sit  there  and  keep  her  secrets 
from  the  others — if  he  could.  And  he  grudged 
every  minute  away  from  his  post.  He  would  stay 
for  hours,  with  eyes  fixed  on  her  face.  No  one  could 
supply  so  well  as  he  just  that  coherent  thread  of 
the  familiar,  by  which  the  fevered,  without  know- 
ing it,  perhaps  find  their  way  a  little  in  the  dark 
mazes  where  they  wander.  And  he  would  think 
of  her  as  she  used  to  be — well  and  happy — adopt- 
ing unconsciously  the  methods  of  those  mental  and 
other  scientists  whom  he  looked  upon  as  quacks. 

He  was  astonished  by  the  number  of  inquiries, 
even  people  whom  he  had  considered  enemies  left 
cards  or  sent  their  servants,  forcing  him  to  the  con- 
clusion that  people  of  position  are  obliged  to  re- 
serve their  human  kindness  for  those  as  good  as 
dead.  But  the  small  folk  touched  him  daily  by  their 
genuine  concern  for  her  whose  grace  and  softness 
had  won  their  hearts.  One  morning  he  received 
a  letter  forwarded  from  Bury  Street. 

"Dear  Major  Winton, 

"I  have  read  a  paragraph  in  the  paper  about 
poor  Mr.  Summerhay's  death.  And,  oh,  I  feel  so 
sorry  for  her!  She  was  so  good  to  me;  I  do  feel 
it  most  dreadfully.  If  you  think  she  would  like  to 
know  how  we  all  feel  for  her,  you  would  tell  her, 
wouldn't  you?    I  do  think  it's  cruel. 

"Very  faithfully  yours, 

"Daphne  Wing." 


492  BEYOND 

So  they  knew  Summerhay's  name — he  had  not 
somehow  expected  that.  He  did  not  answer,  not 
knowing  what  to  say. 

During  those  days  of  fever,  the  hardest  thing  to 
bear  was  the  sound  of  her  rapid  whisperings  and 
mutterings — incoherent  phrases  that  said  so  little 
and  told  so  much.  Sometimes  he  would  cover  his 
ears,  to  avoid  hearing  of  that  long  stress  of  mind 
at  which  he  had  now  and  then  glimpsed.  Of  the 
actual  tragedy,  her  wandering  spirit  did  not  seem 
conscious;  her  lips  were  always  telling  the  depth 
of  her  love,  always  repeating  the  dread  of  losing 
his;  except  when  they  would  give  a  whispering 
laugh,  uncanny  and  enchanting,  as  at  some  gleam 
of  perfect  happiness.  Those  little  laughs  were 
worst  of  all  to  hear;  they  never  failed  to  bring  tears 
into  his  eyes.  But  he  drew  a  certain  gruesome 
comfort  from  the  conclusion  slowly  forced  on  him, 
that  Summerhay's  tragic  death  had  cut  short  'a 
situation  which  might  have  had  an  even  more  tragic 
issue.  One  night  in  the  big  chair  at  the  side  of  her 
bed,  he  woke  from  a  doze  to  see  her  eyes  fixed  on 
him.  They  were  different;  they  saw,  were  her 
own  eyes  again.    Her  lips  moved. 

"Dad." 

"Yes,  my  pet." 

"I  remember  everything." 

At  that  dreadful  little  saying,  Winton  leaned 
forward  and  put  his  lips  to  her  hand,  that  lay  out- 
side the  clothes. 

"Where  is  he  buried?" 


BEYOND  493 

"At  Widrington." 

"Yes." 

It  was  rather  a  sigh  than  a  word  and,  raising  his 
head,  Winton  saw  her  eyes  closed  again.  Now  that 
the  fever  had  gone,  the  white  transparency  of  her 
cheeks  and  forehead  against  the  dark  lashes  and 
hair  was  too  startling.  Was  it  a  living  face,  or  was 
its  beauty  that  of  death? 

He  bent  over.    She  was  breathing — asleep. 


XII 

The  return  to  Mildenham  was  made  by  easy 
stages  nearly  two  months  after  Summerhay's  death, 
on  New  Year's  day — Mildenham,  dark,  smelling 
the  same,  full  of  ghosts  of  the  days  before  love  began. 
For  little  Gyp,  more  than  five  years  old  now,  and 
beginning  to  understand  life,  this  was  the  pleasantest 
home  yet.  In  watching  her  becoming  the  spirit 
of  the  place,  as  she  herself  had  been  when  a  child, 
Gyp  found  rest  at  times,  a  little  rest.  She  had  not 
picked  up  much  strength,  was  shadowy  as  yet,  and 
if  her  face  was  taken  unawares,  it  was  the  saddest 
face  one  could  see.  Her  chief  preoccupation  was 
not  being  taken  unawares.  Alas!  To  Winton, 
her  smile  was  even  sadder.  He  was  at  his  wits' 
end  about  her  that  winter  and  spring.  She  ob- 
viously made  the  utmost  effort  to  keep  up,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  watch  and  wait.  No 
use  to  force  the  pace.  Time  alone  could  heal — 
perhaps.  Meanwhile,  he  turned  to  little  Gyp,  so 
that  they  became  more  or  less  inseparable. 

Spring  came  and  passed.  Physically,  Gyp  grew 
strong  again,  but  since  their  return  to  Mildenham, 
she  had  never  once  gone  outside  the  garden,  never 
once  spoken  of  The  Red  House,  never  once  of  Sum- 
merhay.  Winton  had  hoped  that  warmth  and 
sunlight  would  bring  some  life  to  her  spirit,  but  it 

494 


BEYOND  495 

did  not  seem  to.  Not  that  she  cherished  her  grief, 
appeared,  rather,  to  do  all  in  her  power  to  forget 
and  mask  it.  She  only  had  what  used  to  be  called 
a  broken  heart.  Nothing  to  be  done.  Little  Gyp, 
who  had  been  told  that  "Baryn"  had  gone  away 
for  ever,  and  that  she  must  "never  speak  of  him 
for  fear  of  making  Mum  sad,"  would  sometimes 
stand  and  watch  her  mother  with  puzzled  gravity. 
She  once  remarked  uncannily  to  Winton: 

"Mum  doesn't  live  with  us,  Grandy;  she  lives 
away  somewhere,  I  think.    Is  it  with  Baryn?" 

Winton  stared,  and  answered: 

"Perhaps  it  is,  sweetheart;  but  don't  say  that 
to  anybody  but  me.  Don't  ever  talk  of  Baryn  to 
anyone  else." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  where  is  he,  Grandy?" 

What  could  Winton  answer?  Some  imbecility 
with  the  words  "very  far"  in  it;  for  he  had  not 
courage  to  broach  the  question  of  death,  that  mys- 
tery so  hopelessly  beyond  the  grasp  of  children, 
and  of  himself — and  others. 

He  rode  a  great  deal  with  the  child,  who,  like 
her  mother  before  her,  was"  never  so  happy  as  in 
the  saddle;  but  to  Gyp  he  did  not  dare  suggest  it. 
She  never  spoke  of  horses,  never  went  to  the  stables, 
passed  all  the  days  doing  little  things  about  the 
house,  gardening,  and  sitting  at  her  piano,  some- 
times playing  a  little,  sometimes  merely  looking 
at  the  keys,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap.  This 
was  early  in  the  fateful  summer,  before  any  as  yet 
felt  the  world-tremors,  or  saw  the  Veil  of  the  Temple 


496  BEYOND 

rending  and  the  darkness  beginning  to  gather. 
Winton  had  no  vision  of  the  coif  above  the  dark 
eyes  of  his  loved  one,  nor  of  himself  in  a  strange 
brown  garb,  calling  out  old  familiar  words  over 
barrack-squares.  He  often  thought:  'If  only  she 
had  something  to  take  her  out  of  herself!' 

In  June  he  took  his  courage  in  both  hands  and 
proposed  a  visit  to  London.  To  his  surprise,  she 
acquiesced  without  hesitation.  They  went  up  in 
Whit-week.  While  they  were  passing  Widrington, 
he  forced  himself  to  an  unnatural  spurt  of  talk; 
and  it  was  not  till  fully  quarter  of  an  hour  later 
that,  glancing  stealthily  round  his  paper,  he  saw 
her  sitting  motionless,  her  face  turned  to  the  fields 
and  tears  rolling-  down  it.  And  he  dared  not  speak, 
dared  not  try  to  comfort  her.  She  made  no  sound, 
the  muscles  of  her  face  no  movement;  only,  those 
tears  kept  rolling  down.  And,  behind  his  paper, 
Winton's  eyes»  narrowed  and  retreated;  his  face 
hardened  till  the  skin  seemed  tight  drawn  over  the 
bones,  and  every  inch  of  him  quivered. 

The  usual  route  from  the  station  to  Bury  Street 
was  "up,"  and  the  cab  went  by  narrow  by-streets, 
town  lanes  where  the  misery  of  the  world  is  on 
show,  where  ill-looking*  men,  draggled  and  over- 
driven women,  and  the  jaunty  ghosts  of  little  chil- 
dren in  gutters  and  on  doorsteps  proclaim,  by  every 
feature  of  their  clay-coloured  faces  and  every  move- 
ment of  their  unfed  bodies,  the  post-datement  of 
the  millennium;  where  the  lean  and  smutted  houses 
have  a  look  of  dissolution  indefinitely  put  off,  and 


BEYOND  497 

there  is  no  more  trace  of  beauty  than  in  a  sewer. 
Gyp,  leaning  forward,  looked  out,  as  one  does  after 
a  long  sea  voyage;  Winton  felt  her  hand  slip  into 
his  and  squeeze  it  hard. 

That  evening  after  dinner — in  the  room  he  had 
furnished  for  her  mother,  where  the  satinwood 
chairs,  the  little  Jacobean  bureau,  the  old  brass 
candelabra  were  still  much  as  they  had  been  just 
on  thirty  years  ago — she  said: 

"Dad,  I've  been  thinking.  Would  you  mind  if 
I  could  make  a  sort  of  home  at  Mildenham  where 
poor  children  could  come  to  stay  and  get  good 
air  and  food?    There  are  such  thousands  of  them." 

Strangely  moved  by  this,  the  first  wish  he  had 
heard  her  express  since  the  tragedy,  Winton  took 
her  hand,  and,  looking  at  it  as  if  for  answer  to  his 
question,  said: 

"My  dear,  are. you  strong  enough?" 

"Quite.  There's  nothing  wrong  with  me  now 
except  here."  She  drew  his  hand  to  her  and  pressed 
it  against  her  heart.  "What's  given,  one  can't 
get  back.  I  can't  help  it;  I  would  if  I  could.  It's 
been  so  dreadful  for  you.  I'm  so  sorry."  Winton 
made  an  unintelligible  sound,  and  she  went  on: 
"If  I  had  them  to  see  after,  I  shouldn't  be  able  to 
think  so  much;  the  more  I  had  to  do  the  better. 
Good  for  our  gipsy-bird,  too,  to  have  them  there. 
I  should  like  to  begin  it  at  once." 

Winton  nodded.  Anything  that  she  felt  could 
do  her  good— -anything  ! 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said;    "I  quite  see — you  could 


498  BEYOND 

use  the  two  old  cottages  to  start  with,  and  we  can 
easily  run  up  anything  you  want." 

"Only  let  me  do  it  all,  won't  you?" 

At  that  touch  of  her  old  self,  Winton  smiled. 
She  should  do  everything,  pay  for  everything, 
bring  a  whole  street  of  children  down,  if  it  would 
give  her  any  comfort ! 

"Rosamund'll  help  you  find  'em,"  he  muttered. 
"She's  first-rate  at  all  that  sort  of  thing."  Then, 
looking  at  her  fixedly,  he  added:  "Courage,  my 
soul;   it'll  all  come  back  some  day." 

Gyp  forced  herself  to  smile.  Watching  her,  he 
understood  only  too  well  the  child's  saying:  "Mum 
fives  away  somewhere,  I  think." 

Suddenly,  she  said,  very  low: 

"And  yet  I  wouldn't  have  been  without  it." 

She  was  sitting,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap, 
two  red  spots  high  in  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  shining 
strangely,  the  faint  smile  still  on  her  lips.  And 
Winton,  staring  with  narrowed  eyes,  thought: 
'Love!  Beyond  measure — beyond  death — it  nearly 
kills.  But  one  wouldn't  have  been  without  it. 
Why?' 

Three  days  later,  leaving  Gyp  with  his  sister, 
he  went  back  to  Mildenham  to  start  the  necessary 
alterations  in  the  cottages.  He  had  told  no  one 
he  was  coming,  and  walked  up  from  the  station 
on  a  perfect  June  day,  bright  and  hot.  When  he 
turned  through  the  drive  gate,  into  the  beech- tree 
avenue,  the  leaf-shadows  were  thick  on  the  ground, 


BEYOND  499 

with  golden  gleams  of  the  invincible  sunlight  thrust- 
ing their  way  through.  The  grey  boles,  the  vivid 
green  leaves,  those  glistening  sun-shafts  through 
the  shade  entranced  him,  coming  from  the  dusty 
road.  Down  in  the  very  middle  of  the  avenue,  a 
small,  white  figure  was  standing,  as  if  looking  out 
for  him.    He  heard  a  shrill  shout. 

"Oh,  Grandy,  you've  come  back — you've  come 
back!    What  fun!" 

Winton  took  her  curls  in  his  hand,  and,  looking 
into  her  face,  said : 

"Well,  my  gipsy-bird,  will  you  give  me  one  of 
these?" 

Little  Gyp  looked  at  him  with  flying  eyes,  and, 
hugging  his  legs,  answered  furiously: 

"Yes;  because  I  love  you.    Pull!" 


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